


Axe And Flame

by stewardess



Series: The Mountain And The Wood [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Angst, Drinking, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Dynamics, Romance, Size Difference, Thorin is majestic, a plague on the stiff necks of the dwarves, happiest possible ending permitted by canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stewardess/pseuds/stewardess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After detecting a mysterious presence in his fortress, Thranduil moves Thorin to a more secure location: his bedroom. A blend of book canon (in which the dwarves are held for forty-two days) and movie canon.  Set in <em>The Desolation Of Smaug</em> film time period. This story has a prequel: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1133613">History Lesson</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eyebrowofdoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/gifts).



Tauriel had departed, and Thranduil was finally alone in his chambers. Or was he? Earlier, when he had warned Tauriel of Legolas's growing attachment to her, Thranduil had perceived another presence with them, on the edge of his sight and hearing.

Thranduil closed his eyes and stood motionless until he could perceive it again: a watching malice which cast a shadow on his thoughts. He stepped quickly to the doors to his chambers, where the presence was strongest. Knowing she was long out of earshot, he called "Tauriel?" to cover his actions. He was rewarded with a quiet sound like bare feet on grass, and an incongruously unthreatening scent of green apples and wet wool.

Thranduil resolved to put the invisible presence aside as a mystery to be solved later; his chief worry was the thirteen dwarves in his dungeons. But then a thought struck him. What if the two, the dwarves and the invisible presence, were not unrelated? What if Thorin's defiance had not sprung solely from pride, but also from confidence? What if Thorin believed he had an ally inside Thranduil's fortress, and the presence Thranduil sensed was a spy? 

Thranduil poured a cup of wine, walked leisurely into his sleeping chamber, and rang a bell to summon a servant. If there was a spy within his fortress, he must behave as usual and not put it on its guard.

He would have to take one measure that night, however. The dwarves had been confined in an upper dungeon, which was lightly guarded, and easy to discover; they would have to be put elsewhere so a closer watch could be kept. Or perhaps only Thorin had to be moved. When the servant appeared, Thranduil sent him to fetch the chief warden.

* * *

Thranduil and the warden arrived at Thorin's dungeon cell an hour past midnight.

To obscure their intent, the warden carried a large bundle of bedding hastily snatched from Thranduil's bed, but, as Thranduil had hoped, the dwarves were sleeping and were unaware of their presence.

The warden placed the pristine bundle on the stone floor, and unlocked the barred door to Thorin's cell. Thorin sat up swiftly, reaching for a sword he no longer owned. 

"Remain quiet, or you'll be gagged," the warden said, as Thranduil had instructed.

The warden picked up the bedding. Seeing the embroidered silk, Thorin at first looked baffled. When Thorin guessed their purpose, he glared at Thranduil.

Moving quickly, the warden tossed the silk coverlet over Thorin, picked Thorin up like a sack, and grunted with the dwarf's weight. There was a muffled curse, but Thorin did not call out to his companions.

* * *

They deposited Thorin in a seldom-used guard room within the palace. Thorin emerged from the coverlet with more dignity than Thranduil had thought possible. 

Isolated at the end of a long corridor, the guard room was far roomier than Thorin's cell; Thranduil could stand in it comfortably. It was furnished with two stools and three footstools, which could serve as tables and chairs for Thorin. The room also contained a cot.

The warden picked up the coverlet.

"Leave it," Thranduil said in Sindarin. "It is soiled. Bring me three guards."

The warden bowed and went out, closing the door behind him, but leaving it unlocked. Thranduil's presence made locks superfluous; Thorin could not possibly overpower him and escape.

"Much pleasanter accommodations," Thorin said. "Do you expect my thanks?" Thorin's words were light, but his face was grim. The dwarf understood the move was not for his benefit, but could hardly complain Thranduil was making it more difficult for a spy to find him.

"You are welcome," Thranduil said.

He received a contemptuous look from Thorin. Even now, after spending several hours in Thranduil's dungeons, Thorin evidently believed he and Thranduil were on an equal footing.

When Thorin and his twelve companions had been captured and brought before Thranduil's throne the day before, Thranduil had made Thorin a more-than-reasonable (if entirely insincere) offer: Thranduil would set Thorin free and aid him on his quest for the Arkenstone; in return, Thorin would give Thranduil the white gems Thror had withheld from Thranduil years before.

Thranduil had asked Thorin for the white gems in Erebor only as a test. He wished to discover what Thorin knew of the gems, particularly if Thorin knew their origin; he had no expectation of Thorin successfully retrieving the gems from the dragon's lair.

Thorin should have fallen to his knees before Thranduil in gratitude for the offer of freedom, but Thorin had hurled vile insults instead, and had paid the price: imprisonment until he came to his senses, agreed to give up his quest to take back Erebor, and return to the Blue Mountains, where the dwarves of Erebor had prospered.

Thorin's outburst had shocked and surprised Thranduil. Thranduil knew Thorin's grandfather, Thror, had loathed him, but he had not realized Thror's poison had been passed on so completely to Thorin, who had once been Thranduil's friend. He had not known Thorin had so much anger toward him – so much anger it could only be called hate.

Before sensing the spy, Thranduil had believed a month or two in his dungeons would be enough to discourage Thorin from going on to Erebor and getting killed by Smaug. But now there were an ever-increasing number of mysteries which required explanation.

There was the report Thranduil's spies had brought him months back, of Thorin and Gandalf meeting in Bree a year ago. Then there was the unseen malice he had perceived; a spy had never penetrated Thranduil's fortress before, so the dwarves must have the aid of powerful magic. Also Orcrist: the Elven sword had been missing for thousands of years, so how and where had Thorin found it? What was Thorin's plan to enter Erebor? Could it succeed? If Thorin had the help of magic, perhaps Thorin's plan _could_ succeed – and perhaps Thranduil would get the white gems he desired. And – last and most remote – perhaps Thorin could claim the Throne of Durin without being incinerated by dragon fire.

When the warden returned with three guards, Thranduil beckoned two into the room.

"Search the prisoner." Thranduil spoke in the common tongue for Thorin's benefit. "Thoroughly."

The dwarves had been searched for weapons, nothing else, when Legolas and Tauriel had captured them in the forest. If Thorin had a spy, he might have a device to communicate with it, so everything the dwarf possessed had to be examined.

"Keep your hands off me!" Thorin shouted.

Thranduil was not surprised Thorin's anger had returned. Thorin had cooperated earlier because leaving the dungeons could have improved his circumstances. Now Thorin knew it did not, he would resist. The guards moved toward Thorin, but Thranduil stayed them with an upraised hand.

"If you will not allow your person to be searched, then undress," Thranduil said. "The guards will examine your clothing and return it to you."

Thranduil waited for his words to sink in. As proud and as angry as Thorin was, Thorin would eventually realize they could search him by force if they wished.

Thorin began with the belt over his coat. He disrobed quickly, but it was still a lengthy process; he wore a formidable number of layers. Undressed, Thorin lost much of his bulk, and differed little in appearance from an unusually muscular man. Everything was over-sized, so all was in proportion. When Thorin removed his boots and trousers, Thranduil motioned to a guard to give Thorin the coverlet to hide his nakedness.

"Keep any garments with metal," Thranduil said to the guards, then said to Thorin, "Your personal ornaments next, if you please. They will be returned to you at a later date."

Thorin handed his jewelry, piece by piece, to a guard, who placed it in a leather pouch. As Thorin slid a ring off a finger, he said bitterly, "Undoubtedly this was also made by your ancestors."

Thorin referred to Legolas taking Orcrist from him. Thranduil said nothing; it did not require comment.

"We have searched his clothing, my lord," a guard said in Sindarin. "There is nothing of interest, save for a pipe and tinder."

"Disgusting habit," Thranduil said in Sindarin. "But he may keep them." Thorin would not be fool enough to attempt to burn his way out.

The guard returned everything to Thorin except for a metal belt and the jewelry. When Thorin had on his trousers and boots, he cast a bitter look at Thranduil, almost a sneer, as if Thranduil's demand for jewelry had confirmed Thorin's lowest opinion of elves. Thranduil made to leave, then turned back to Thorin, who was dressed except for his layers of coats.

"Wait," Thranduil said. "Your hair, Thorin. It is bound with silver ornaments." He beckoned a guard over.

Thorin swore in Dwarvish at the guard approaching him. Thranduil did not catch the words, but the meaning was clear enough: Thorin was infuriated at being handled. Thranduil motioned the guard out of the room. He would not subject his guards to insults, even in a language they did not understand.

"Would you prefer someone of higher rank searched you, Thorin Oakenshield?" Thranduil said.

Thorin looked resigned, so Thranduil bent down to remove the silver clasps from Thorin's hair. He had seen four, but there proved to be many. To find every clasp, Thranduil had to run his fingers through the strands of Thorin's hair, and he had to do so slowly, because Thorin's hair was still entangled with traces of spider webs. With each clasp Thranduil discovered and removed, Thorin's hair grew more unruly; it became a dark cloud, smelling of leather and stone, and maddeningly brushed Thranduil's face.

Thorin watched him closely the entire time. Thranduil was unused to being scrutinized as if he were a mystery, because he was never in the company of strangers. But it mattered not; Thorin's stare did him no harm – and in the guard room, what else was there for Thorin to look at but Thranduil?

Just when Thranduil believed he had found every clasp, he discovered four more on Thorin's ears. At last Thranduil was satisfied he had found them all. He straightened up and counted the clasps: seventeen. There had to be an eighteenth; dwarfs were predictably symmetrical. Perhaps Thorin had lost one in his skirmish with the spiders.

"Was that necessary?" Thorin said. His anger seemed to have deflated.

Thranduil opened his hand, showing the silver clasps."Your reputation as a blacksmith has reached my ears," Thranduil said. "I do not doubt you could fashion a key or weapon from these."

Thorin's manner was still subdued; could it be that Thorin was coming to his senses? Thranduil had not planned to speak of anything important with Thorin tonight, but perhaps he should.

"I'd like to know only one thing, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil said. "Because I know everything else. Tell me how you plan to enter Erebor, so I may decide if you have even the slightest hope of success. Then perhaps–"

Thorin blinked several times, and his head drooped, reminding Thranduil the dwarf had battled giant spiders for hours that day, and had been traveling through the forest for weeks. No wonder the dwarf had not fought Thranduil's search; Thorin was exhausted. Thranduil had not kept company with mortals for years, and had forgotten how easily they tired. 

"When you are willing to speak to me, I will listen," Thranduil said.

Once the door was locked behind him, Thranduil ordered the warden to send for him if Thorin requested an audience, but to otherwise isolate Thorin completely. Thorin's guards were to be masked, mute, and to remain out of Thorin's sight.

By itself, the dark, windowless guard room would not lower Thorin's spirits; a dwarf was not troubled by life underground. But Thorin had been traveling, for months perhaps, with his twelve companions, so loneliness might free Thorin's tongue. From this day forward, Thranduil would be the only window through which Thorin saw the world; Thorin's world would be nothing but Thranduil.

* * *

Back in his chambers, there was no sign of the chilling presence, but Thranduil could not sleep.

He had told Thorin he knew almost everything; it had been a lie. But he did have one advantage: he knew a smattering of Dwarvish, and would have to take care Thorin did not find out. He had picked it up long ago, when the dwarves of Moria had traded freely with the elves. Fortunately, Thorin had been too angry the day before to register Thranduil's comprehension of Thorin's Dwarvish curse. _May you burn in dragon fire._

There were numerous concerns to disturb Thranduil's repose that night. From Thorin's home in the Blue Mountains, Thorin had to pass through Thranduil's realm to reach Erebor; if Gandalf was involved in some way with Thorin's quest, Gandalf should have sent word to Thranduil. Why hadn't he?

Thranduil had been in no hurry to discover Thorin's secrets, but he no longer had time on his side. If a spy could get messages to and from Thorin, keeping Thorin prisoner would accomplish nothing. Instead of time doing the work for him, Thranduil had to find another way to make Thorin amenable.

His chance of rest that night was dim, and growing dimmer. The older Thranduil became, the less he needed sleep, but the more he craved it. If he could not find sleep, he would search out starlight in its stead.

He mounted narrow, twisting stone steps until he reached the uppermost level of his cavern fortress, where he exited through secret ways into the woods above. There, he climbed a ladder into his realm's tallest beech, known as the King's Beech, until he reached the platform at its crown. Guards took up positions at the tree's foot, but they knew not to disturb him.

The night was clouded, but at long last stars appeared in the breaks. Toward dawn, there was a brief shower of rain. Thranduil remained in the beech, looking up at the sky, until the sun fully rose and the stars faded into her light.

* * *

In the morning, Thranduil desired to question Thorin, for days if necessary, until the dwarf broke. But that would let Thorin know Thranduil had a reason to be impatient – the spy – so he must abide for a time by his earlier statement to Thorin, and let Thorin sit idle. If Thorin discovered Thranduil knew of the spy, Thorin would warn it, and the spy would never be caught.

_Stay here if you will, and rot. A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an elf. I'm patient. I can wait._

* * *

For the next ten days, Thranduil had his hands full with Tauriel and Legolas.

Tauriel continued to insist she be allowed to pursue and destroy the orcs which had followed the dwarves into the forest. To accomplish it, she requested permission to take an entire company south toward the abandoned fortress of Dol Guldur.

Thranduil informed her he could not spare her at the moment, and instructed her to tell the dwarves Thorin had been moved to accommodations better suited to his rank, but to keep Thorin's location secret.

When Legolas began to echo Tauriel's demand to pursue the orcs, Thranduil called his son to his chambers to find out why.

"Tauriel has been speaking to the dwarves," Legolas said.

"Good," Thranduil said. "Perhaps she'll learn something of use."

"She speaks only to one," Legolas said gloomily. "The youngest. And tallest. She said he is handsome. For a dwarf."

Thranduil knew which dwarf Legolas referred to: Kili, Thorin's nephew, who looked much like Thorin had at that age.

Weary of their arguments, Thranduil solved both of his problems by sending Tauriel and Legolas on a southern patrol, with strict orders not to leave the Woodland Realm, and to return within two weeks. After Legolas and Tauriel departed, Thranduil informed the warden he would be visiting Thorin that evening.

For his meeting with Thorin, Thranduil left off his crown, and wore a cloak in subdued colors. While he had not sensed the spy again, it was certain the spy would try to follow him until he led it to Thorin, so Thranduil wished to avoid attracting its attention.

At the entrance to the long corridor leading to Thorin's makeshift prison, a guard handed him the key. Thranduil silently walked down the corridor, wishing to surprise Thorin into a revelation. The dwarf had not seen another face, or had speech with anyone, since Thranduil had left him ten days earlier.

Halfway down the corridor, Thranduil halted. A sound came from the guard room. It echoed off the stone walls, and climbed up Thranduil's spine. Thorin was singing.

A century and a half earlier, Thranduil had heard Thorin sing in Dale, and later he had heard Thorin sing in Erebor. In the years since, Thorin's voice had grown richer, deeper, more melancholy. Thorin sang in Dwarvish of Khazad-dum – of Moria, where his grandfather Thror had been cut down before him, and where Thorin had earned the name _Oakenshield_.

Five years before Smaug had destroyed Dale and seized Erebor, Thranduil had invited Thorin to come to the Greenwood and sing in his great hall. Thorin had never acted on the invitation, but for that Thranduil blamed Thror, not Thorin. Now Thorin was at last singing in Thranduil's caverns, and in spite of the circumstances Thranduil listened with pleasure – until he realized the song was not for his ears: Thorin was undoubtedly singing so his hidden ally could find him.

Angered, Thranduil strode forward, unlocked the door to the guard room, and flung the door open. Thorin immediately stopped singing.

Thorin's expression when he saw Thranduil was one of involuntary relief, almost to the point of gladness. His face was pale and drawn, even though the warden reported Thorin had been well fed. If Thranduil had desired the last ten days to be hard on Thorin, then he had had his wish. 

Thranduil beckoned a guard over and ordered wine to be brought. He waited in the corridor until wine and two cups were placed on a stool in Thorin's room. When the guard departed, Thranduil entered, closed the door, and turned to Thorin.

The room was poorly lit by a single oil lamp mounted on the wall, but it was clean and orderly. Thranduil's silk coverlet was neatly folded at the foot of the cot. Thorin stood in the center of the room; his proud posture appeared to require an effort of will. He had tamed his hair by braiding strands of it, and he had apparently occupied himself during the last ten days by washing the dirt of his journey from his skin and clothing.

"I did not ask to speak to you," Thorin said, and added with wary respect, "King Thranduil."

Thranduil filled the two cups, and sat on the tallest stool. The wine scented the small room with a memory of sun-warmed fruit. Thranduil picked up his cup and drank. He did not offer the other cup to Thorin; either Thorin would accept the wine, or he would not. After a brief hesitation, Thorin sat on a footstool, picked up his cup, and drank deeply from it.

This time, Thranduil would weigh his words before he spoke.

When Thorin had insulted Thranduil before his throne, Thranduil had lost his temper for the first time in many years. He had been so shocked by Thorin's contempt he had revealed to Thorin the old wounds on his face, which he had not exposed for centuries. The act had brought back the sensation of bone-deep burning and shattered flesh, as if Thranduil was once again stricken nearly onto death, crawling on the Plain of Ard-galen, as around him elves, men, and dwarves were trampled by Morgoth's foul beasts.

Thorin watched him drink, and quickly looked away. Perhaps Thorin believed he would see wine spill from Thranduil's wounds.

"My wounds no longer impede me in any way," Thranduil said. "You will see nothing unpleasant."

Thorin inclined his head in a kingly nod; the wine and company were quickly improving the dwarf's mood.

The nod nearly brought a smile to Thranduil's face. Even at Thranduil's mercy, Thorin could be _gracious_. Had there ever been a race in Middle-earth prouder than the Line of Durin? But a gracious Thorin was as Thranduil desired him; it was why he had sent for wine. A frightened, angry Thorin would tell him nothing.

"Your wounds must pain you," Thorin said. "I am sorry."

"Do not be," Thranduil said. "I am not troubled by pain."

"The enchantment which conceals your wounds also relieves pain?" Thorin asked.

"Something of that nature," Thranduil said.

Thorin inclined his head again. This time, Thranduil smiled.

"Thranduil," Thorin said. "I regret my words to you."

As Thorin should, after ten days of imprisonment. The words sounded as if Thorin had rehearsed them over and over in his mind, to come up with a phrase that was sufficiently apologetic, but not craven.

"I have regrets as well," Thranduil said, but he felt no need to itemize them for Thorin's benefit.

"They were spoken in an anger of many years making," Thorin said. "I did not know you – you fought in the Siege of Angband?" Thorin's speech was stilted by his effort at politeness.

Thranduil nodded. He knew Thorin had read a history book which recounted his role in the Battle of Dagorlad, but Thranduil's presence at the sieges was undoubtedly not mentioned; his part in them had been unimportant.

Although the siege battles had taken place thousands of years earlier, Thorin would know them well; dwarves had fought there alongside elves and men. At the Fifth Battle, a dwarf's blow had almost fatally wounded Glaurung, Father of Dragons.

Thranduil set down his wine cup and stood. He had shown enough interest in Thorin for one day; he must not appear too eager for information. Thorin rose with him.

"If there is anything I can do for you, you have only to ask." Thranduil gave Thorin his own version of a kingly nod.

Thorin looked incredulous, then cautious. "Such as?"

"Such as news of your companions," Thranduil said.

Thorin studied him, perhaps to determine if there was some catch, then said, "I would be thankful for news."

"Your companions are in good health," Thranduil said. _And loyal to you._ Kili had talked for hours to Tauriel, but had not told her anything of use before she left for the southern forest with Legolas.

"All twelve are well?" Thorin asked.

"Of course," Thranduil said.

Thorin smiled widely, showing his teeth. "Please accept my thanks," Thorin said.


	2. Chapter Two

Thranduil's conversation with Thorin troubled him. Something Thranduil had said, or not said, had given confidence back to the dwarf. What could it be?

In the morning, Thranduil hurried to see Thorin. He did not wish to appear eager, but he had to know if Thorin's confidence was temporary or permanent. He arrived at the same time as Thorin's breakfast, and was pleased to see the food was ample. Thorin rapidly ate the roast meat and bread.

Thranduil seated himself on a stool. "I have a new offer for you." 

Finished with his meal, Thorin wiped his hands on a cloth.

"Tell me how you intend to enter Erebor, and I will let your companions go in return," Thranduil said. "You, however, would remain here."

He had no intention of doing anything of the kind; he wanted to know Thorin's response, as it would reveal how critical Thorin was personally to the plan to enter Erebor.

"What of the white gems you desire?" Thorin said.

"Let us not speak of them now," Thranduil said.

"A fair offer," Thorin said. "But I cannot accept it."

Thranduil frowned. Thorin had not even thought upon the offer, but had immediately rejected it. Something had changed. Yesterday, Thorin had been weighed down by doubt; Thranduil was sure Thorin had not feigned his depressed mood.

"Why not?" Thranduil said sharply.

Unruffled by Thranduil's tone, Thorin said politely, "My companions would not leave without me, so I cannot in good faith accept your offer."

Thranduil considered this. Perhaps he should put the offer to the other dwarves, and test their loyalty to Thorin.

"I must speak of the white gems," Thorin said, looking determined. "I did not know, until you asked me for them, that you had any claim to them."

Thranduil had guessed this; Thorin's reaction before his throne had told him Thorin was ignorant of the white gems and their history. But Thorin might still know something of value about them, such as how Thror had obtained them.

"I have no wish to keep the white gems from you," Thorin said. "They are nothing to me."

"Nothing to you?" Thranduil said. "Then you do not know where Thror found them?" This was ill news. Thranduil had been certain Orcrist had come from the same source as the white gems.

"I do not," Thorin said. "But I do not believe I have the right to gainsay the decision of my grandfather – or father – to keep them."

Thorin declaring he was duty-bound to honor the decision of Thror and Thrain was infuriating. Thror was long dead, and Thrain had vanished a hundred years earlier. Recently, Gandalf had searched for Thrain, entering Moria in the attempt, and had found no signs. Thrain could not be alive. But Thranduil knew of Gandalf's search through his spies, so it was possible Thorin had no knowledge of it; Gandalf may not have confided in Thorin.

"Truly?" Thranduil said. A cold anger filled him. "Do you acquiesce to every decision made by your dead forefathers, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin's face set stubbornly, a tiresomely familiar dwarf expression. "My father may yet live, Thranduil. Until I learn otherwise, I will abide by his decision to keep your gems."

Thranduil stood up. The sudden movement toppled his stool and sent it clattering to the floor. His anger with Thorin, and Thorin's insults, had returned, and he wanted no more conversation.

Thorin also stood, but his manner was under control. "Thranduil. May I ask what the white gems mean to you? Are they mere finery, or–"

Finery! Thranduil was offended, but the word brought a matter back to his attention: he had Thorin's personal ornaments with him.

While Thranduil's new offer was not sincere, he had planned to make it appear so by returning Thorin's jewelry. He removed the leather pouch from his belt and tossed the pouch onto a stool. Rings, bracelets, and hair clasps spilled out of it and onto the floor.

Thorin's calm expression faltered; he appeared close to losing his temper as well.

"A meager collection, for a king," Thranduil said, pointing at the silver jewelry, which Thorin made no attempt to retrieve. "Your grandfather's beard alone contained a fortune in diamonds and emeralds, but you do not have a single beard clasp – perhaps because your beard is so short. Why is that? A dwarf of your years should have a beard to the waist."

Thorin glowered and said nothing.

"Perhaps you know you are comelier with a short beard," Thranduil said, to goad Thorin into a response.

"It is not vanity!" Thorin said, finally roused to a matching anger. "It is in honor of those who fell to Smaug's flames. Those who survived had beards singed short, and in their memory–"

"But your beard was not singed that day, Thorin Oakenshield." Thranduil remembered clearly how Thorin had looked.

The glare Thorin gave him almost made Thranduil relieved the dwarf held no weapon, then Thorin turned from him and faced the wall. Thorin wanted him gone, but it was Thranduil's fortress, Thranduil's guard room, and Thorin was Thranduil's prisoner. But Thranduil decided to leave, regardless; their conversation was at an end.

In the corridor, Thranduil stopped to collect himself. Unless he wished to be frequently enraged, keeping Thorin prisoner was turning out to be less desirable than he had supposed. He reminded himself he had gained something from it: he had prevented Thorin from waking up Smaug and getting killed.

Halfway down the corridor, Thranduil halted. In his anger, he had not noticed at first, but now he could sense the troublesome presence, the chilling sense of doom, in the corridor with him. So that was why Thorin had rejected his offer. In spite of Thranduil's precautions, the spy had found Thorin, and the ten days Thranduil had kept Thorin isolated were wasted.

Thranduil looked at the guards at the hallway's far end; perhaps the spy could be caught. But the corridor was long and dark, and the guards few. Now was not the time; Thranduil would have only one chance. Once he revealed to the unseen presence he was aware of it, he would not get another. He must set a trap, and set it carefully.

At the end of the corridor, he returned the key to Thorin's prison to a guard. "The prisoner will be moved tomorrow," Thranduil said in rapid Sindarin. "Send the warden to me for instructions."

* * *

That night, when sleep did not come, Thranduil summoned musicians and sang to them Thorin's song of Moria. The musicians took up the melody and enlarged upon it, but Thranduil could not settle. He paced his chambers, then left for his great hall, the musicians trailing behind him.

He sat upon his throne, and, slowly, his folk joined him, some singing, some playing instruments, others dancing, until the hall was filled with merry-making. The musicians sped up Thorin's stately, haunting theme to suit the dancers.

Soon the nocturnal birds and beasts that lived within the caverns came out to watch. Foxes slinked boldly in the shadows; a great grey owl swooped down to perch atop Thranduil's staff. Lanterns were lit, wine was brought in, and no sleep came for any of them, but, for a while at least, Thranduil found rest in waking dreams.

* * *

An hour before the sun rose, the warden placed a hood over Thorin's head, and guards carried Thorin to a small, empty room adjoining Thranduil's chambers.

An elf would have found the room too small, but it was large enough for Thorin. It had a stout door, and there was no way to reach the room except past Thranduil. Door wardens were already stationed at every entrance to Thranduil's chambers, so no guards would have to be placed on the door to Thorin's gaol, which would only have drawn attention to it.

Thranduil had told no one about the spy's presence. He would inform Tauriel when she returned from the southern forest, but it was best no one else knew, so the spy would not be alerted by increased vigilance. But he had taken one precaution: he had summoned servants to light every lantern in his chambers, and to array candles in every corner, banishing the shadows. He had also instructed guards to move the other twelve dwarves an hour before Thorin was moved. The dwarves were not moved far, only to nearby cells, but Thranduil trusted the resulting confusion had distracted the spy.

Once Thorin was in his new gaol, the warden locked the door and gave Thranduil the key.

"The dwarf fought this time," the warden said. "I had to strike him."

Thranduil was instantly furious. "Leave! Now!"

The warden hurried out.

Thranduil had not planned to see Thorin until a few days had passed, but the warden's statement changed his mind. He unlocked the door to Thorin's room, entered, and closed the door behind him.

Thorin tried not to show any emotion at Thranduil's appearance, but Thorin's fists briefly clenched, and Thorin's arms were rigid at his sides. There was a large bruise forming on Thorin's left cheek. Most of the bruise was covered by Thorin's beard, but it appeared to extend from his lips to his left eye.

Before speaking, Thranduil examined the room. The guard room's furnishings had been moved to Thorin's new quarters, but instead of a cot there was a full-size bed. Thranduil's silk coverlet was folded on the foot of it; Thorin had already made the room orderly.

"The warden will not strike you again," Thranduil said.

"You seem sure of that," Thorin said, his voice cold.

"He is no longer warden," Thranduil said.

Thranduil was angry, but not with Thorin, or even the warden. He was angry at himself. Thorin had been his prisoner for eleven days, and relations between them were as ugly and unpleasant as they had been on the first day. Thranduil must change the situation, and he came to a rapid decision as to how. He stepped out of the room, and held the door open wide, inviting Thorin to exit.

Thorin did not hesitate; he left his gaol immediately.

During his sleepless night, Thranduil had debated how best to lull Thorin into giving him information, and had come to two conclusions. The first was that he would have to treat Thorin as much like an equal as he could, while still keeping Thorin prisoner. Thorin was too proud and too stubborn to respond to any other treatment. Thranduil's second conclusion was that he must tell Thorin the one thing a dwarvish heart would unfailingly understand: why he desired the white gems.

Thranduil went to his table and sat in his favorite chair, which was fashioned from a beech he had loved; the tree had perished a century earlier. He poured wine into two cups, and waited for Thorin to join him at the table.

Thorin looked about Thranduil's chambers, casting a critical eye over the tree roots protruding from rough stone, and the water flowing wherever it wished. There was a severe lack of the symmetry so dear to the dwarven race. Thorin also studied the chamber's furnishings: the fires in braziers, the bed, the couches, and the large pool of water. 

"My caverns were built in memory of Menegroth in Doriath," Thranduil said. "They are a poor copy, but then my caverns were not built with the aid of the dwarves of Belegost, as Menegroth was."

Thorin gave Thranduil a keen glance, then took the smaller chair at the table. Thorin could sit in it comfortably, but, once seated, his head was not much higher than the table top. Thranduil would have to order another chair.

"What is this place?" Thorin asked.

"My home," Thranduil said. "The room you occupy was once the queen's wardrobe."

A faint stain of red appeared on Thorin's unbruised cheek.

"And what is this?" Thorin said, looking at the wine and small cakes on the table. "Surely it is not your breakfast. Is there any tea?"

Thranduil rang a bell to summon a servant, and ordered something more substantial. Toasted bread, cheese, boiled eggs, and tea arrived with satisfying promptness. The information Thranduil had to share was too momentous to be discussed over such fare, so he waited until Thorin had finished eating, and was sipping tea.

"The white gems I desire are the Nauglamir," Thranduil said.

Thorin looked uncomprehending, but Thranduil had expected that. The Nauglamir had been lost in the sea thousands of years ago; how Thror had obtained it was a mystery responsible for many of Thranduil's sleepless nights.

"The Nauglamir," Thranduil repeated, so Thorin would eventually absorb it. "The necklace of the Dwarves which once held a Silmaril, and which I last saw worn by King Thingol in Menegroth. The Silmaril was lost, but the white gems in the necklace are also of great value. They were made by the Noldor in Valinor, and brought to Middle-earth at great cost."

Thorin paled, as if he feared the sons of Feanor might leap out of the ground to assail them. Thranduil was about to assure Thorin he need not have any worries on that score, when Thorin spoke.

"My grandfather did not tell me!" Thorin said the words quietly, nearly to himself, but there was a look of pain on his face; he no doubt felt betrayed Thror had kept such an important piece of information from him.

No necklace had a bloodier history. Thingol had been slain by the dwarves who had made the Nauglamir for him, then had desired it for themselves. The slaying of Thingol remained the greatest atrocity of dwarf against elf.

"Are you sure they are the same gems?" Thorin asked. "I have read a description of the Nauglamir, and the necklace Thror showed you looked quite different."

"True," Thranduil said. He continued, more reluctantly, "The setting is not the same. But I am certain. The white gems I saw still reflected the purity of the Silmaril. It is a divine light which cannot be mistaken for anything else."

In the brief glimpse of the Nauglamir Thror had permitted, Thranduil had seen the Light of Aman, which he had never seen for himself, only in reflections: in the Nauglamir's Silmaril, and in the face of Melian the Maia, Thingol's queen.

Thranduil could see Thorin ached to ask questions, but dreaded the answers. No one hurried to learn ill of one they had loved. 

"Your grandfather Thror may not have known what the gems were when he obtained them," Thranduil said. "Other than jewels priceless beyond measure. But when he showed them to me, he read from my face the knowledge of what they were. And then he denied them to me." 

Emotions crossed Thorin's face in rapid succession: sadness, regret, and a hint of disgust.

"I do not believe Thror intended evil, at first," Thranduil said. "He chose me to confirm the gems' provenance, because who else could? Few live who have seen the Nauglamir."

Thorin still did not speak, and looked troubled.

"I desire to have the Nauglamir in memory of my kin, and of Doriath," Thranduil said. "The necklace may no longer hold a Silmaril, but it is nevertheless sacred to me, as the Arkenstone is sacred to you."

Thranduil could have said more; he could have pointed out that, by telling Thorin the value of the gems, he had given Thorin something immensely valuable to bargain with. But Thorin would know it without Thranduil saying it.

Thorin's assessing gaze made Thranduil feel no one had truly seen him for years. Perhaps it was why he had revealed his old wound to Thorin. Thranduil was used to being looked at in only three ways: with fear, with deference, or with love – or some combination thereof. 

Finally, Thorin appeared ready to speak, but then his brow furrowed. 

"If what you say is true, Thranduil – and I do not doubt it – then the gems may have been devoured by Smaug."

Thranduil's blood ran slow and cold. Thorin was right. The Enemy's beasts thirsted for the Light of Aman; they sought to devour it and destroy it, for it was forever beyond their reach. Was Smaug's fire hot enough to destroy the gems? A Silmaril, no, but the Nauglamir's gems? Yes.

A great weariness came over Thranduil. Tears came to his eyes, which burned with the unfamiliar sensation. He had not cried for an age – not since his wife had sailed for Valinor.

Thorin's gaze was still intense, still assessing, but not as hard as before.

"I do not know why my grandfather kept the gems from you," Thorin said. "I cannot think of a reason. Unless the gems confer an advantage in battle?"

"A Silmaril, when worn by the sons of Feanor, struck the servants of evil with fear and madness," Thranduil said. "But the white gems do not have that power."

"I cannot promise the Nauglamir is where I last saw it," Thorin said. "But, if it is, it is possible Smaug has not discovered it, and that the Nauglamir is safe."

Thranduil bowed his head in acknowledgement. "Thank you," Thranduil said. "Your words comfort me."

Thorin finished his tea. Thranduil finished his wine.

"Thank you for telling me about the Nauglamir," Thorin said.

"I did not wish you to know the gems' true value," Thranduil said.

"I'm sure you did not." Thorin nearly smiled. "Regardless of my grandfather's reasons, I will not keep the Nauglamir from you, Thranduil."

Thranduil was stunned, and encouraged. He had not expected Thorin to be so forthcoming, so quickly. But Thorin's openhandedness upset the balance between them.

"I cannot let you go, in spite of your promise to give me the gems," Thranduil said. "Before I can release you, you must take me fully into your confidence, and tell me how you intend to enter Erebor to retrieve the Arkenstone."

"I understand," Thorin said.

Relief ran through Thranduil. At last Thorin would tell him everything: how he planned to enter Erebor; if Gandalf was involved; perhaps even the identity of the spy.

But Thorin rose from his chair, indicating their talk was over. Thorin understood what Thranduil wanted, but was not going to give it. Not yet. Thranduil's relief turned to sadness.

Thorin walked to his gaol, and bowed his head slightly when Thranduil locked him in.

Thranduil paced his chambers. Keeping Thorin nearby was a necessity, but serving as Thorin's gaoler was unpleasant. Thranduil despised depriving any creature of its freedom, be it bird, or beast. Or dwarf. 

Nevertheless, Thranduil was cautiously optimistic. He did not have what he wished, but there seemed to be a chance of attaining it in the future, since Thorin had revealed much – particularly that he was hurt by Thror not telling him about the Nauglamir, which could not have been easy for Thorin to admit to. And something was confirmed: treating Thorin well was more likely to get Thranduil the result he desired.


	3. Chapter Three

The following evening, Thranduil issued an invitation to Thorin, who had been in his gaol all day.

"Do you have any objection to dining at the king's table?"

"None," Thorin said.

Thorin exited his gaol, and they took their seats. Thorin's new chair had arrived; it put his eyes almost level with Thranduil's. Dinner was already on the table. Thranduil uncovered the dishes, and gave the utensils to Thorin to serve himself first.

Thorin speared a forkful of food and put it in his mouth. "Venison. Very good." 

For the next quarter of an hour, Thranduil watched Thorin eat rapidly, yet with much enjoyment. Something about Thorin was different; Thorin's bruise had faded, but that was not it.

"You are wearing your silver," Thranduil said.

The hair clasps were back in Thorin's hair, his rings back on his fingers; all of his jewelry was back on, including the clasps on his ears.

"Not silver, Thranduil." Thorin smiled slightly. "Mithril."

Recalling how he had disparaged Thorin's jewelry, Thranduil was almost embarrassed. Thorin's ornaments were not as showy as Thror's had been, but were no less precious. 

"Do you usually dine alone?" Thorin said.

"Yes," Thranduil said. When he bothered to dine at all. "But there is a feasting hall where my folk and I gather on holidays." Thranduil took a bite of the venison. It was delicious.

"Your son does not dine with you?" Thorin asked.

"My son is away," Thranduil said.

For the first time in many years, no food remained on the king's table at the end of a meal; they had eaten it all. Thranduil refilled their wine cups.

"You said you warned my grandfather of the evil his wealth would bring," Thorin said. "I would like to know when you warned him."

Thranduil was wary of answering. Any discussion of Erebor, or of Thror, could lead to a resumption of negotiations between them – or derail negotiations utterly; it was impossible to say which. Since Thorin had immediately rejected his last offer, Thranduil was reluctant to discuss any topic related to Thorin's quest until more time had passed. But refusing to answer could increase tension, not alleviate it.

"I spoke to Thror about his hoard" – Thranduil refused to use the tepid term _wealth_ – "at a feast I held in Dale for Girion. You were there. You played the harp, and sang for the company." 

"I remember." Thorin's brow creased, and he looked at his empty plate, not at Thranduil.

"Did something trouble you at the feast?" Thranduil said. "If it concerns Thror–"

"It does not," Thorin said, his voice low. "What troubled me was… You. You were the first elf I met. You did not bother to conceal your distaste on the occasion."

"Your grandfather's growing gold-sickness was not distasteful to me," Thranduil said. "It saddened me."

"I speak of the way you looked at _me_ ," Thorin said. His face flushed. "It is no secret the Firstborn consider dwarves…"

"Ugly?" Thranduil said. "True. Aule built his children for strength, not beauty. But that was not my thought when I first saw you."

Due to the poisonous influence of Thror and Thrain, Thorin's memory of their meeting had been twisted, perhaps for all time. But this was one untruth Thranduil could not let stand.

"I thought I had never met a dwarf so fair," Thranduil said. "Or with so fair a voice."

Not since Thranduil had shown Thorin his scarred face had Thorin been speechless for so long.

"Spare me your flattery," Thorin finally said. 

"I have no need to flatter anyone," Thranduil said. If his voice had turned haughty, he could hardly be blamed. 

Thorin took a deep draught of wine.

"I spoke to your grandfather after the feast," Thranduil said. "After you left with my son." 

Thranduil had engineered Thorin's departure so he could talk to Thror, and also to prevent Thorin from becoming ill in a valiant but doomed attempt to keep up with elves in their cups.

"What did Thror say to you?" Thorin asked, his eagerness to know evidently overcoming a dwarvish aversion to speaking of family.

"When I warned Thror of the danger his hoard would bring upon Erebor," Thranduil said, "he accused me of plotting with the Men of Dale to rob him. I was angry, but I gave him my assurances. I believed I had settled his fears, and that he would heed my warning. But two years later, he dangled the Nauglamir before me."

Thorin was silent. When the silence had stretched beyond endurance, Thranduil asked, "Is there anything you require?" _Before I return you to your gaol._ "Before retiring for the night?"

Thorin's face stiffened with pride. "I need nothing," Thorin said.

* * *

The next day, Thorin ate all of his meals with Thranduil, and did the same the two days following. It became tiresome to keep locking and unlocking Thorin's gaol, so Thranduil gave Thorin the freedom of his chambers, except when Thranduil was absent, and during the night – when Thorin slept, and Thranduil mostly did not.

Thranduil ordered all books in the common tongue to be brought to his chambers; the resulting stack was not impressive, so there was little to occupy Thorin. When Thorin was not reading a book, he tended the braziers, coaxing the fires to blaze brightly.

On the sixth day of his semi-liberty, after dinner, Thorin finally made a request.

"I am unused to sloth," Thorin said. "Sitting idle day after day is difficult. I must stretch my legs."

"You are welcome to swim in the pool," Thranduil said.

"No," Thorin said firmly.

"Very well." Thranduil smiled. It was the first time Thorin had made a request of him, and he wished to honor it. "Then come with me."

Thranduil had planned to spend some hours that night atop his beech. Dwarves had no appreciation for climbing trees, but, if Thorin wished to stretch his legs, he would have to be content with it.

They mounted the stairs, Thorin three paces behind Thranduil. The way up would be utterly confusing to most, but not to one of Durin's folk. Thranduil considered blindfolding Thorin, but each stairway was heavily guarded, so Thorin could not escape this way, even if he memorized the route.

When they at last exited into the forest, Thorin took in a deep breath of relief, even though Thranduil assumed Thorin would have preferred to see the sun, which had set three hours earlier. When they arrived at the great beech, Thorin looked with doubt at the ladder rising into unguessable darkness.

"You may go first," Thranduil said. 

"How tall is this tree?" Thorin said. "The trunk is as big as a house!"

Thranduil did not reply. Thorin began to climb.

They did not pause to rest on the way up. When they reached the platform, Thorin did not appear out of breath. If Thorin had been growing soft in confinement, there was as yet no sign of it. 

Thranduil lit a lantern so Thorin could see their surroundings. They stood on a wooden platform below the crown of the tree, where the broad trunk separated into many limbs, creating a canopy of leaves over their heads. The trunk rose through the center of the platform; at this height, the trunk measured three feet across, much smaller than at its foot, where it was twenty feet thick.

A few branches grew out straight from the trunk, and could be used as seats; there was no other furniture. Because it was nearly autumn, the beech's leaves were red, and some leaves had already fallen. It was possible to see a great distance when there was sufficient light.

Thranduil walked to the eastern side of the platform, and beckoned to Thorin. As they gazed east, a full moon began to rise. It lit up a gently moving sea of green, gold, and red treetops.

As the moon rose, the Lonely Mountain showed in relief. Thorin took in a breath.

Thranduil had been so eager to see the moonrise, he had not considered the effect seeing the Lonely Mountain would have on Thorin.

"The next to last full moon of autumn," Thorin said quietly.

Thorin turned away from the sight of the mountain and walked around the perimeter of the platform. Thranduil extinguished the lantern; the moonlight was more than enough to see by.

Facing northwest, Thorin said, "So this is where you go at night, when you do not sleep. Up here, to look upon your kingdom."

Thorin must have heard him pacing at night, and departing by the stairs. 

"Yes," Thranduil said. "Greenwood the Great is my kingdom, and I am its only shepherd."

Thorin glanced at him. "What do you mean by shepherd?"

"The Greenwood once had many shepherds," Thranduil said. "Shepherds of the trees. But they have vanished from these lands. They may still live elsewhere in Middle-earth; I do not know."

"Are you speaking of wood demons?" Thorin said. He sounded faintly alarmed.

"They are not demons, Thorin," Thranduil said. "No more than you or I. But it is true they are not overfond of anyone who harms trees."

Thorin had stopped looking at the forest, and was looking at Thranduil.

"The Greenwood is the last great forest left in Middle-earth," Thranduil said. "Every tree, every beast, every bird, is as much my charge as my people are. That is why I call myself its shepherd."

Thorin turned to look again at the Lonely Mountain: the kingdom he had lost.

"You wish to claim the Throne of Durin," Thranduil said. "But are you not content to be king in the Blue Mountains? Your people have prospered there. You could marry–"

"I will not marry except as king of Erebor," Thorin interrupted, his voice hard. He turned back toward Thranduil.

"So pride is the reason for your current state," Thranduil said. "Unmarried, and alone."

"You may think what you like." Thorin's voice was cool.

"I understand why you wait," Thranduil said. "As king of Erebor, you would have your pick of brides."

"What do you mean?" Thorin said, his voice suspicious.

"What I mean," Thranduil said, "is that Erebor was once the fairest dwelling in Middle-earth, and could be so again. Any bride would be happy to live in its splendor with you." Thranduil hoped Thorin did not take his words as encouragement to tackle a dragon.

Thorin joined him on the eastern side of the platform again, so they faced each other, standing only an arm's length apart.

"What of your wife?" Thorin said.

Ordinarily, Thranduil would have ignored such a question. But Thorin was gaoled in her former wardrobe, so perhaps Thorin had a right to be curious.

Thorin hesitated, then said, "Is she…"

"Dead?" Thranduil said. "No. She sailed west to the Undying Lands."

"When did she depart?"

"Four hundred and thirty-one years ago," Thranduil said.

He had inadvertently given Thorin an opportunity to throw his words back in his face. _A hundred years is a blink in the life of an elf._ Thranduil smiled somewhat bitterly at his misstep while he waited for Thorin's reply. 

But Thorin said, "Then you will be re-united with her one day."

"So one would think," Thranduil said. "But I will never abandon the Greenwood. Not if I am the last elf on these shores!"

His voice rose; he nearly leaned over to shout in Thorin's face, as he had done before his throne. Thorin reacted as he had then: he stared into Thranduil's eyes, as if he beheld the greatest mystery he had ever encountered.

Thranduil took a step back. "Perhaps you wonder if my wife knew of my choice to remain when she sailed for Valinor," Thranduil said.

Thorin inclined his head in assent.

"She did," Thranduil said. "But understand it is I who have made the indefensible choice. She did not abandon me. By my choice, I have abandoned her."

As if by agreement, they looked again on the moon, now shining brightly above the Lonely Mountain. After a few moments of silence, Thorin spoke.

"I'm surprised to hear you call Erebor splendid," Thorin said. "You did not think much of my grandfather's garden, at any rate." 

Thorin's expression was milder than Thranduil had yet seen it.

"I do not think much of any garden," Thranduil said. "Plants should choose for themselves how to grow."

Thorin laughed. The sound shocked Thranduil into a smile.

"Evidence of your views on plants is all around me, Thranduil," Thorin said. "For hundreds of miles in every direction. So your objection to Thror's garden was not that it was the work of dwarves?"

"To object to the creations of dwarves would be witless," Thranduil said. "The Nauglamir was made by dwarves. So was Angrist, the knife that cut a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown. And Narsil, Elendil's great sword, which delivered us from the Enemy. What would Middle-earth be without the works of dwarves? A heap of ash and bones."

Of all the piercing looks Thorin had given him before, Thorin at that moment surpassed them. It was as if Thorin wished to stare into Thranduil's soul.

Thorin must have heard countless lies about him from Thror and Thrain, painting him as a villain. It could not be undone, but Thranduil could not help but be encouraged by Thorin's attention.

"The greatest achievements of elves and dwarves were not created by themselves alone," Thranduil said. "They were the result of friendship, such as the friendship which existed between Beleriand and Belegost. Between Eregion and Moria." And between the Greenwood and Erebor, if not for Thror's descent into darkness.

Thorin continued to stare at him. Thranduil stared back. Thorin's bruise had faded completely, and he was no longer the bedraggled traveler captured three weeks earlier. Thorin's dark hair was smooth and in perfect order, his clothing faultless, and his beard – Thranduil was certain – was even shorter than before.

A gentle rain began to fall, still warm with the fading summer. Thranduil turned his face up to welcome it, but Thorin closed his eyes tightly against the drops. Thranduil sighed, and they descended the ladder.

* * *

When Thorin was back in his gaol, Thranduil lay down on the bed and waited for sleep to come.

He had planned to remain in the beech all night, but returning to the beech alone had no appeal. At last he rose from his bed and put a cloak on over his nightclothes. He drank two cups of wine in quick succession, and paced around the pool, but the wine had no effect.

If Thranduil could not have starlight, and if wine failed him, there was only one cure left. He knocked on the door to Thorin's gaol, then unlocked and opened it.

"What do you want?" Thorin said brusquely.

Thorin was still fully dressed, and had a candle lit; he had also not been sleeping. He was reclined on his bed, reading a century-old account of Esgaroth's fisheries. He regarded Thranduil with a look of – not fear, but caution, as if sighting a wild animal sunning itself in a glade, and wondering if it would shake off its torpor.

"I cannot sleep," Thranduil said. "I desire your help. Do you still play the harp?"

Thorin looked astonished. "It has been some time. But yes."

Thranduil had judged Thorin would not be keen to play for him, but that Thorin would nevertheless find it hard to pass up a chance to make music. Thranduil was right. Thorin put down his book.

"I will need a harp," Thorin said as he left his room.

"Do you remember the harp I gave to you?" Thranduil asked.

Thranduil had taken it with him to Erebor, two years after Girion's coronation. The next day, Thror had shown him the Nauglamir. Three years later, the dragon had come.

"Yes," Thorin said, his expression guarded. "But do not ask me what became of it. Thror replaced it with one of gold."

Thranduil opened a chest, and lifted out a harp.

"Your grandfather returned it to me," Thranduil said. Thror had included a note, but Thranduil could not show it to Thorin, because he had thrown it on a fire. "Will it do?" Thranduil asked.

In answer, Thorin took the harp and carried it to the flight of steps which wound up to the woods. Thorin sat on the third step, settled the harp's base on the floor, and leaned the harp's soundbox against his right shoulder.

The harp was made of beech wood, was inlaid with pearl, and had the double row of overlapping metal strings – brass, silver, and gold – which dwarves preferred. Its pillar was five feet tall, Thorin's height when Thranduil had commissioned the harp's construction by Lorien craftsmen.

Thranduil poured out wine for himself and Thorin, placed a cup beside Thorin on the steps, then sat at his table, his cup in his hand.

Thorin plucked the harp, checking the instrument's tuning. "It will do," Thorin said, and smiled fleetingly.

With no further warm-up, Thorin began to play. He sang softly in the common tongue, just loud enough for Thranduil to hear the words. As Thorin grew accustomed to the space he sang in, his voice grew stronger.

Thranduil had enjoyed briefly hearing Thorin sing in the guard room, but the music Thorin was now creating was far lovelier. Thranduil's chambers did not appear large, but they were fashioned out of a natural cavern, so there were many fissures in the rock, leading in all directions. Thorin instinctively realized this, and slowed down the tempo of his singing and harping, so the faint multiple echoes enhanced his music.

Thorin's song choice matched the setting; it was of underground streams carving palaces of stone. Thranduil smiled, with amusement as well as pleasure, for the song was highly suitable as a lullaby.

While Thorin played on, Thranduil rose from his chair and removed his cloak. As Thranduil undressed down to his undergarment, a sleeveless white linen tunic, Thorin played a series of discordant notes; the dwarf was out of practice. Wearing the tunic, Thranduil entered the pool, and made his way down underwater steps until the water reached his chin.

The music faltered. Dismayed, Thranduil looked enquiringly at Thorin.

"Do you wish for me to continue?" Thorin asked.

"Please," Thranduil said.

Thorin frowned.

"Speak your mind," Thranduil said.

"I do not provide accompaniment for _baths_ ," Thorin said, his expression proud. "That is servant's work."

"I am listening, not bathing," Thranduil said. Since Thorin's song was of water, hearing it while in the pool had seemed a pleasant notion. Fortunately, Thorin began to play again.

Thranduil thought of the last time he had heard Thorin play; it was impossible not to, for Thorin was playing on the same harp.

It had been in Erebor, two years after Girion's coronation. The subject of the song Thorin had performed was the Battle of Dagorlad, and Thranduil was sure Thorin had chosen it out of respect for him. The music Thorin had created in Erebor's great hall, with the harp and his voice, had been stunning; tears had formed in Thranduil's eyes.

The day had perhaps been the pinnacle of Thranduil's hopes to bring about friendship between Erebor and the Greenwood. His hopes had begun two years before, when he had first met Thorin, and had been impressed by the young dwarf who had summarily dismissed him from a terrace, sung and played enchantingly at Girion's feast, and had then later touched his face. He had never imagined he would feel a kind touch again, and certainly not that it would come from a dwarf.

When he had listened to Thorin sing in Erebor, he had thought _What a king Thorin will be_. But the collapse of Thranduil's hopes had come the next day, when Thror had shown him the Nauglamir. A week later, Thorin's harp, which had been two years in the making, was returned to him.

When Thror had kept the Nauglamir from him, Thranduil had believed Thror could not sink lower; he had been wrong. Thror had soon proved himself capable of far worse.

Thranduil remained in the water, listening, his eyes closed, for nearly an hour. When he stepped out of the pool, water streamed off him onto the stone floor.

Thorin's playing faltered again.

"Are you weary?" Thranduil said.

Thorin said, "No," loudly. He resumed playing.

Thranduil stepped behind a screen to exchange his soaked tunic for a dry one. His hair was drenched, but it would dry in time. He took the wine and his cup from the table, sat on the steps to Thorin's left, and re-filled their cups.

"You are fond of wine," Thorin said. He paused in his playing to take the cup Thranduil handed to him, then held the cup in one hand and studied it.

"Elves usually are," Thranduil said. "Alas, it has little effect on me. Less and less, as the years pass." Thranduil drank the wine in his cup, and re-filled it.

Thorin continued to stare at his cup, which struck Thranduil as odd, and he could not put his finger on why. Then he knew: Thorin always looked at _him_ when they spoke together. Always. Thorin had not looked away – had not so much as blinked – even when Thranduil had forced Thorin to see his dragon fire wounds.

At first, when Thorin had been confined in the guard room, Thranduil had assumed Thorin looked at him because there was nothing else to see. But once Thorin had all of Thranduil's chambers to gaze at, Thorin had still looked at Thranduil. Until now.

Thranduil felt the loss keenly. He set down his wine cup, clasped Thorin's chin in his hand, and turned Thorin's face to look into his own.

Thorin's beard was surprisingly soft, and long enough Thranduil could curl his fingers in it if he wished, so he did. Then he realized two things. The first was that the wine had caught up with him, and the second was that Thorin's eyes were hot with anger.

Thorin set down his cup and gripped Thranduil's wrist, and his grip was like iron in its strength. When Thranduil let go of Thorin's face, Thorin released Thranduil's wrist. 

"You command my comings and goings," Thorin said, his voice harsh. "Must you command my eyes as well?"

_Yes_ , Thranduil thought. Because no one else looked at him as Thorin did.

"You looked your fill before," Thranduil said. "Why no longer?" 

Thorin flushed and looked down, as if Thorin had believed Thranduil had been unaware of his staring.

"You wish to take leave of me?" Thranduil said. "And look no more upon me?"

Thorin refusing to answer piled anger on top of Thranduil's disappointment. Thranduil stood up, and loomed over Thorin, though not as much as he desired, since Thorin was sitting on the stairs, not the floor.

Thorin lifted his head; his eyes glittered. "I do not say that," Thorin said.

"Then why do you look away?" Thranduil said.

"To one such as you," Thorin said, his face still flushed, "I would have thought it obvious."

"Speak plainly," Thranduil said.

Flushing darker, Thorin said, "One accustomed to being admired."

It at last dawned on Thranduil that Thorin stared at him not merely to fathom his thoughts, but to admire his appearance. 

When he had first met Thorin, he had believed Thorin had admired him, but Thorin had been young, and had seen nothing of the world then; any elf would have seemed interesting. Now Thorin was close to two hundred years in age, and had seen much.

A dwarf! Admiring an elf! It had happened before, but so rarely as to be astounding, and what was truly astounding was Thorin admitting to it. Thranduil could not fully believe it, but Thorin's next words confirmed it beyond all doubt.

"If you would have me look at you, give me less to look upon," Thorin said. His flush had faded; he had himself in hand.

Thranduil looked down at his sleeveless tunic. It was long, ankle-length, but the cloth was thin. His wet hair had dampened the tunic, increasing its sheerness.

If Thorin found his state of undress a distraction, then Thranduil could comply with Thorin's wish by putting on more garments, and continue to listen to Thorin's music – or he could stay as he was and have neither the music nor Thorin's company. Or he could send for his musicians. But they were servants, as Thorin had said. And Thranduil wanted a king to play for him.

"Why do you smile?" Thorin said, with more curiosity than anger.

"Because," Thranduil said. "It has been so long since someone has contested me, I had nearly forgotten the pleasure of getting my way."

Thorin laughed with eyes closed and head thrown back, his mirth the strongest Thranduil had yet seen. Thranduil smiled as he found a cloak and covered himself with it.

With deliberate movements, Thorin began to play the harp once more. "Tell me when you tire of my music."

Thorin spoke with mock-seriousness, but Thranduil did not mind.

"I will not tire, even if you play all night," Thranduil said. "So halt when it pleases you." Thranduil stretched out on his bed, angling himself to watch Thorin.

Thorin was a harpist who did not have to look at the strings, so he looked at Thranduil as he played and sang. Thranduil enjoyed both Thorin's music, and Thorin's gaze. Above all, Thranduil enjoyed the sensation that something altogether unexpected had happened.

Thorin's music swiftly took Thranduil into a gentle dream, in which his caverns slowly filled with sweet, clear water. Thranduil's folk were not alarmed by it, because, like fish, they could swim and breathe in the water as easily as they could walk and breathe on land. To Thranduil, it did not seem strange, nor was it strange when his folk sang to him in Dwarvish of hair fairer than gold.

* * *

Thranduil awoke in the morning to silence. He had slept for many hours; he could feel it in the heaviness of his limbs.

Thorin was still sitting on the steps, the harp still resting against him, but was asleep. Thranduil could feel the fading vibrations of the harp strings in the air; he must have wakened as soon as Thorin slept and no longer played.

Thranduil rose from bed, bent over Thorin, and took his hand. When Thorin opened his eyes, Thranduil said, "Come."

Thorin followed Thranduil willingly enough to his gaol's door, but balked once they reached it. A couch was close by; Thranduil led him to it instead. Thorin cast himself on its cushions and slept.


	4. Chapter Four

When Thorin woke at noon, Thranduil ordered lunch. They sat down to roast partridge, warm bread, wild berries, and golden wine.

Thorin dropped his knife on the table when Thranduil reached for the bread; Thorin never dropped things. Thranduil followed the direction of Thorin's gaze to his own wrist, and saw there marks left by Thorin's grip the night prior. The marks had already faded; they would be gone in hours.

"I am sorry," Thorin said, sounding surprised rather than contrite.

There was a loud rap on the doors. "Enter," Thranduil called.

Guards opened the doors, admitting Legolas. When Legolas saw Thorin at Thranduil's table, Legolas's lips parted in surprise.

"Why does the dwarf go about in freedom?" Legolas said in Sindarin. "Are the rest free as well?"

"Welcome home," Thranduil said in Sindarin. "The other twelve are in the dungeons, where you last saw them. And Thorin is not free. I am his gaoler. Do you think he could escape me?"

Still speaking in Sindarin, Legolas said, "No, Father," and looked abashed.

Thranduil softened, and said, "I have my reasons for it, and I will tell you, in time." 

He could not speak of the spy where so many could hear, and he still intended to inform Tauriel of the spy before he revealed it to Legolas.

Thranduil continued speaking in Sindarin. "Where is Tauriel?"

"She has gone to the dungeons," Legolas said, looking aggrieved.

Thorin watched them closely as they spoke. It did not take knowledge of Sindarin to understand Legolas had objected to Thorin's presence, and Thranduil had defended it. Thorin's gaze went to Orcrist, which hung from Legolas's belt.

"We must speak elsewhere," Thranduil said in Sindarin. He rose from the table and addressed Thorin in the common tongue. "Please excuse me, Thorin."

Thorin bowed his head, but did not rise; Legolas saw, and frowned.

* * *

Thranduil met with Tauriel and Legolas on a terrace overlooking the river. Tauriel's report was brief: the orcs were multiplying.

"The orcs are killing ten times more forest game than they can eat," Tauriel said. "They take it south, to Dol Guldur. They must be building up their forces there.”

"You could not be sure of that unless you disobeyed my instructions and crossed the border," Thranduil said.

"I did not, my lord," Tauriel said. "But it is obvious. Where else could the orcs be taking the game? They cannot be taking it to their holes in the Misty Mountains; their tracks would lead west."

"You assume orcs kill only for food," Thranduil said, getting cross. 

Legolas glanced at Tauriel. "We did find rotting carcasses," Legolas said. "Animals killed, and left to lie."

"But too few to account for the numbers missing," Tauriel said.

"What of the orcs that were pursuing the dwarves?" Thranduil asked.

"They are no longer in the Greenwood," Legolas said.

"We cannot be certain of that," Tauriel said, her voice heated.

"Enough!" Thranduil said. "Tauriel, what is it that you wish?"

"You know what I wish," Tauriel said. "To take a company to Dol Guldur, and strike the orcs at their source."

Without waiting for a dismissal, Tauriel turned and left. Legolas watched her go.

"Father," Legolas said. "May I speak to you about something?"

* * *

Accompanied by two guards, Thranduil returned to his chambers. When the door wardens admitted him, he heard a loud splash. He walked in to find a trail of water leading behind a screen. Thorin had been swimming.

Thranduil waited until Thorin, fully dressed but with wet hair, emerged from behind the screen.

"Would you like to know what I discussed with my son?" Thranduil said.

"It is of no interest to me," Thorin said, looking at the guards flanking Thranduil. "But if you wish to speak of it…"

"Legolas is distressed you are not behind bars. He fears you will harm me." Thranduil smiled at the notion. "So I offer you three choices. You may continue to roam my chambers freely, but you must do so in chains, or with two guards at your sides at all times – or you must remain in your gaol."

"You would chain me like an animal?" Thorin said, his voice holding only curiosity.

Thranduil nodded, as if in assent. Thorin would never tolerate being bound, so Thorin would choose either the guards, or the gaol. If Thorin chose to remain in his gaol, it would indicate Thorin still held out hope of meeting with his spy; Thorin could not do so with guards at his elbows.

"You may chain me, then," Thorin said.

Thranduil smiled. Thorin had called his bluff.

"I have no intention of fettering you, or setting guards on you," Thranduil said. "Or returning you to your gaol. The doors to my chambers are watched ceaselessly; you cannot leave except with me. Also, I know something my son does not. You said your companions would not depart without you. The reverse is true as well; you would not leave without them." As long as Thorin's companions were in Thranduil's dungeons, Thorin would remain.

Thranduil dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand.

"You may sleep where you wish," Thranduil said. "Choose any couch. Or the bed in your gaol; the door to it will remain unlocked."

Thorin smiled as he bowed his head in acknowledgement.

* * *

Because of Tauriel's abrupt departure from their meeting, Thranduil had not yet told her about the spy, and had concluded he would not. Instead, he would partly grant her wish. He would allow her to go south again, to determine if orcs were taking game from the woods, but would permit her to take only a troop of twenty, reasoning even Tauriel would not attempt to assault Dol Guldur with so small a force.

With instructions to return in time for the autumn feast, which was three weeks hence, Tauriel departed. Legolas went with her, as he always did. Thranduil did not hinder it, though one day he feared it would go ill for his son.

That night, Thorin chose to sleep on the couch across the pool from Thranduil's bed. Thorin was a restless sleeper; he tossed and turned, but he did not waken. Thranduil envied him his rest.

* * *

When the autumn feast was two weeks away, Thranduil met with his steward in the kitchens, where food was prepared for all living within the fortress. The ostensible reason for their meeting was to review the food and wine to be served at the autumn feast, but they had another matter to discuss first.

"What have you to tell me?" Thranduil said. He had taken two members of his staff into his confidence about the spy: a captain of the palace guard, and the steward.

The steward leaned close, relishing a rare chance at conspiracy. "I did as you asked, my lord. Set out food in plain sight, as if forgotten."

"Your conclusion?" Thranduil said.

"The spy is a man, strong and tall," the steward said. "He eats enough for two elves."

"He could be a dwarf," Thranduil said, thinking about Thorin's appetite. Whatever the spy was, it was flesh and blood, not a spirit.

"I think not," said the steward, who had lived in Dale before it had been laid waste by Smaug. "Dwarves prefer plain food: beef, bread, and ale. Only dainties go missing: cakes, cheeses, grapes, roast chicken–"

"Thank you," Thranduil interrupted. He had not yet had his dinner. "Continue to leave food out – and do not change what you leave to cater to the spy's tastes."

"Certainly not," the steward said, flushing. "And now, my lord, would you honor me by sampling the autumn feast menu?"

A table and chair were brought for Thranduil, and the first course was served. The kitchen staff sang for him as they worked, and Thranduil realized he had been remiss; it had been weeks since he had dined with his folk. He summoned musicians, and ordered wine for all.

* * *

When Thranduil returned to his chambers, Thorin was asleep on a couch. It was nearly midnight. Thranduil prepared himself for sleep, and lay down upon his bed. He could hear Thorin breathing.

He reviewed his plan to catch the spy. The day of the autumn feast would be best; with all the merry-making, the spy would assume security was lax. To ensnare the spy, Thranduil would bring Thorin with him to the feast in the dining hall. When they left the feast, they would make their way to Thorin's former prison, the guard room. The spy would be sure to follow.

Soldiers would hide inside the guard room. Thranduil would make a show of difficulty in unlocking the door, giving the spy enough time to enter the corridor and get close to him and Thorin. More soldiers would seal off the end of the corridor, and the soldiers concealed in the guard room would spring out; the spy would be caught between them.

The plan was simple, so there was some chance of success. Thranduil tried to put it out of his mind so he could rest, but it weighed on him. He would have to conceal from Thorin the reason for going to the guard room, so Thorin would believe Thranduil meant to imprison him in it. And after Thranduil caught the spy, what then? The rapport he had built up with Thorin in the last few weeks would evaporate.

After half an hour of restlessness, Thranduil decided to rise and have a cup of wine. When he sat up, he found Thorin standing next to his bed.

Thorin had on a cloak, deep blue like the summer sky, which Thranduil had had made for Thorin to ward off the chill of the approaching winter.

"Where are you going?" Thranduil said, forgetting Thorin went nowhere without his leave.

"Up a tree, I should think," Thorin said. "Come. There should be a half moon tonight."

"Are you at last growing fond of trees, Thorin Oakenshield?" Thranduil asked.

Thorin smiled. "Fonder than I am of listening to you toss and turn all night."

* * *

When they reached the platform, the beech's upper canopy was lit with glimmers of moonlight. They sat on the branches spreading from the tree's trunk. The half moon was not yet overhead.

"I may remain here for some time," Thranduil said.

Thorin straddled the branch, leaned back against the beech's trunk, and wrapped himself in his cloak. "I am prepared for that," Thorin said.

Thranduil looked up at the night sky and awaited the half-moon's zenith. He waited with neither patience nor impatience, but with a sense of the entwined movements of Arda and the moon, as he would have waited for a dance partner's hand to return to his own.

His meditation was interrupted by Thorin swearing in Dwarvish. _What in hell's name!_

Thorin leapt up and ran to the western side of the platform. Thranduil followed him, and immediately saw the source of Thorin's concern: a distant red light.

"It is a forest fire," Thorin said.

Too shocked to speak, Thranduil stared at the red glow.

"We must sound the alarm," Thorin said. "Quickly. What are your standing orders for a fire?"

"My woods do not burn!" Thranduil said.

Thorin gaped, as if Thranduil had taken leave of his senses, then Thorin understood him: a power lay on the Greenwood and kept it safe from natural fires; the forest fire was therefore the work of devilry. 

"You must have a means to sound an alarm," Thorin said.

There was a small chest with a few supplies: arrows, a cask of water, a spare lantern, and a horn. Thranduil retrieved the horn and set it to his lips, but he did not have the breath to sound it.

Thorin took the horn from him and produced a mighty blast. _Fear! Fire! Foes!_ From the ground below came the sound of rushing feet. Two guards came up the ladder. When they reached the platform, they drew their swords. Wordlessly, Thranduil pointed at the devouring red light in the west.

"Come, we must hurry!" Thorin shouted, and went down the ladder.

By the time they had descended from the beech, a company of elves had assembled. Thorin directed archers to proceed immediately to the fire, and to conceal themselves on its flanks. He ordered two guards to return to the fortress and bring reinforcements, with as many axes as they could carry. 

"Whoever set the fire – undoubtedly orcs – did so to draw us out," Thorin said. "They will attack as we try to control the blaze."

The company's captain looked at Thranduil, who nodded. The captain translated Thorin's orders into Sindarin.

Thorin ran toward the fire; Thranduil and the remaining guards followed. As they ran, Thorin demanded particulars of the ground where the fire appeared to be. Thranduil told him it was south of the Forest River.

"That is well," Thorin said, his breathing loud but steady as they ran. "The winds are from the north tonight. We can stop the fire at the river bank."

They came to a halt on the northern bank. Across the river, trees burned like torches. The night air rang with horrible sounds: sap-heavy wood exploding, trees collapsing, birds and beasts shrieking.

Thorin confirmed the archers were in position. "Now we wait," Thorin said. 

"My woods are burning," Thranduil said. "I cannot wait!" 

"We can do nothing yet," Thorin said, catching Thranduil's arm.

Minutes later, fifty guards armed with axes arrived from the fortress. 

"There, where the river narrows," Thorin called out, and pointed. "That is where the fire can cross. We must take down the trees on this bank, or the fire will spread. Follow me!"

* * *

Seven hours later, Thranduil and Thorin arrived back at Thranduil's chambers. Amid smoke and ruin, the sun had risen an hour earlier.

Thranduil's skin, hair, and clothing were stained and reeking with soot and ash. At the edge of his pool, he stripped his clothing off, left it in a heap on the stone floor, and dived into the water. He remained below until he was out of breath, then rose until his head was above the surface.

Water splashed behind a screen. Thorin was washing with the aid of a basin.

_My woods do not burn._

Without Thorin's counsel and quick action, the fire's destruction would have been far worse.

When Thorin had said the trees had to be cut down to halt the fire's spread, Thranduil had wept, but he had picked up an axe. Felling the trees had taken hours, for the trees had been saplings in the days of Numenor.

Thranduil sank down into the pool until only his eyes and nose were above the water. To escape grief, he held in his mind a vision of Thorin that night: Thorin casting aside his cloak and tunic, naked above the waist, wielding his axe tirelessly. Beside Thorin, the Green-elves had looked like pale reeds.

Once the trees were felled, Thranduil had leapt into the river, and pled with Ulmo for a deluge. He had not called on one of the Valar for more than four hundred years; he had little hope his plea would be heard. Not understanding Thranduil's action, Thorin had dived into the river after him, and had seized him by the hair. Pain still lingered in Thranduil's scalp from Thorin's desperate grab.

Embers crossed the river, and would have set the northern bank alight, but they had managed to smother each spark before it could take hold. An hour before dawn, a fast-moving storm swept in from the Misty Mountains. Rain fell thick and fast, and the fire was quenched.

The orc attack had indeed come, as Thorin had predicted, but, thanks to the archers on their flanks, the orcs had been destroyed. Thranduil only wished he could destroy them a second time.

The water around Thranduil rippled. Thorin was in the pool with him, offering a goblet. Thranduil grasped the cup, which contained clear, cold water. It washed the bitter soot from his throat. Feeling wearier than he had for centuries, Thranduil was only vaguely aware of Thorin assisting him out of the pool. Thranduil bent his knees so Thorin could slip a robe over his shoulders, then Thranduil lay on the nearest couch, the couch Thorin usually slept on.

His weariness was not of the body. He was in despair over the night's events, dwelling on each tree he had lost to axe and flame. Not only trees: a badger den; a hollow oak home to owls; a doe and her fawn. And he was responsible. He had permitted foul creatures to cross his borders and harm his flock.

His grief would have gone on for hours, but the blended music of a harp and Thorin's voice interceded.

Thorin sang of the Mirrormere, the deep, dark waters by Moria, which reflected a clear midnight sky no matter the season, or how bright the day, until at last Thranduil escaped his mooring of present loss and sorrow, and sailed into unvarying, eternal starlight.

* * *

When the autumn feast was only nine days off, Thranduil noticed a marked lowering in Thorin's spirits.

Ever since the fire, on the night of the half-moon, Thorin had become quieter. He sometimes sat without any occupation. When he played the harp, the music was dark and melancholy.

The cause could not be illness; Thorin looked as well as ever. Thranduil's servants had mended and restored Thorin's clothing after the fire, and Thorin had given up elaborate dwarven-style braids; his dark hair streamed over his shoulders. But Thorin's sleep had grown more disturbed, so Thranduil's had also.

Thranduil had told Thorin of the upcoming autumn feast, but had not said he planned to take Thorin with him to the dining hall. He would say nothing of it until the day of the feast; Thorin might refuse to go if he had time to think about it. Besides, something might happen to change Thranduil's spy-catching plans.

They ate a late supper. As soon as they finished, Thorin left the table to tend the fires in the braziers.

Thorin looked so melancholy Thranduil was unable to bear it. He fetched his harp from a chest and placed it before his chair. 

Thorin watched him set up the harp. When Thranduil began to play, Thorin paid him the greatest compliment Thranduil could imagine: Thorin sat down suddenly on the floor, right where he stood, to listen.

At first, Thranduil played music which would be familiar to Thorin. He did not sing; he had never been fond of his own singing, although he prized the singing of others. Finally, he played one of his own compositions. It told the story of the Greenwood's endless cycle of destruction and renewal. Soon he forgot he had an audience, and played with his eyes closed. It had been far too long since he had taken up his harp.

When Thranduil finished, he bowed his head, indicating he was done, and put the harp away.

Thorin remained seated on the floor. He did not appear to be cheered, but he had at least been diverted. 

"Thank Aule I did not hear you play until now," Thorin said, his voice quiet. "Or I would never have dared play before you."

Elves did not blush, so Thranduil did not, but he was pleased. 

"Then I am also glad you did not hear me until now," Thranduil said. "For I could not have borne to have missed your music."

He went to Thorin, with a mind to give Thorin a hand and help him to his feet, but Thorin stood up before Thranduil reached him.

"Thank you," Thorin said, making a slight bow. "I shall sleep now."

Thranduil was dismayed. Thorin's mood seemed even lower than before. Thranduil put a hand on Thorin's shoulder, stopping him. 

"Thorin, you have asked little of me," Thranduil said. "Only to take exercise. Is there anything else you would ask?"

Thorin looked up at him, expressionless, then his face had a cautiousness it had not had for some time. 

"There is," Thorin said. "I would like to see my companions."

Thranduil took his hand from Thorin's shoulder. "I cannot give you that," Thranduil said. "Not unless–"

"I know what you want," Thorin interrupted. "I merely wish to see they are well."

Thranduil turned away. Why had he made such an open-ended offer to Thorin? It had been a foolish gesture. He turned back to Thorin.

"I cannot take you to them, but I will bring to them any message you care to write," Thranduil said.

"Which you will read," Thorin said.

"Yes," Thranduil said. Of course he would read it. He was a king, not a messenger.

Thorin's request proved Thranduil's effort to keep the spy from Thorin had been successful – unless it had not been, and Thorin asked to see his companions as a bluff. But Thranduil was sure it was no bluff; Thorin's spirits were too low.

Taking Thorin to the dungeons to see his kin was not possible. The spy would have had no difficulty reaching the other dwarves; it was why Thranduil had moved Thorin out of the dungeons and into his chambers. The plots the spy and the dwarves may have hatched in the last four and a half weeks must not reach Thorin's ears.

"I give you my word your kin are well," Thranduil said.

The words were barely out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Thorin immediately flushed with anger.

Thranduil sat in his chair and picked up his wine cup. He refused to repeat the fight they had had before his throne. Thorin's words would be forever burned into his memory.

_I would not trust Thranduil, the great king, to honor his word, should the end of all days be upon us! You turned away from the suffering of my people, and the inferno that destroyed us!_

Thorin stood before Thranduil's chair. "So you will not let me see them," Thorin said. "That is your final answer."

"It is," Thranduil said.

"And I have your _word_ they are well," Thorin said.

"Yes," Thranduil said. 

Thorin was silent, and Thranduil began to hope the moment had passed.

"You know what I think of your _word_ , Thranduil," Thorin said.

Thranduil closed his eyes briefly. It was a remarkable thing: no matter how much time passed, no matter how well he knew he had made the only possible choice on that day in Erebor, he still could not stop Thorin's judgment from wounding him.

"If you are referring to the day Smaug came–" Thranduil began.

"I am," Thorin said.

"I know what you believe," Thranduil said. "But what you know is not the entire truth."

"I was _there_ ," Thorin said. "My grandfather wronged you when he kept the Nauglamir. But his wrong does not compare to yours – not unless you value gems above lives!"

"Do not judge me," Thranduil said. "You do not know enough to do so!"

"I know enough," Thorin said, and on his face there was a hint of the sneer Thranduil had thought gone forever.

"You do not!" Thranduil said. "After the dragon came, do you believe I would hasten to Erebor with my army so I could _refuse_ to help?"

"Yes, for that is what you did!" Thorin said.

Thranduil should not say another word. He had kept silent for one hundred and fifty years, waiting for Thorin to discover the truth on his own. But in the end all that mattered was that he could not bear to look one moment longer at the hate on Thorin's face.

"You should not hear this from me, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil said. "But it seems there is no one else to tell you."

The memory of what Thranduil had seen leapt back into his mind. When he and his army had cleared the eaves of the forest and reached the high bluff, below them was devastation. Smoke poured out of Erebor's ruined gate. Dale was in flames. Dwarves and men fled Smaug's slaughter.

Thranduil spoke in slow, measured words. "When you called to me for help, Thror stood behind you, and _waved me off_."

Thorin stared at him, not comprehending.

Thranduil demonstrated. He drew his hand across his throat, then waved his arm in dismissal, in imitation of Thror's gestures. _Over my dead body will I accept your help. Go._

Thror had been so fey, so hate-filled, Thranduil had turned his troops around, although it had rent his heart to do so. He had been certain Thror would have ordered the dwarves to attack the elves, leading to even greater loss of life.

It was a vast relief to have told Thorin, but Thranduil's relief evaporated with Thorin's next words, which were bitter with suspicion.

"Why did you not tell me before?" Thorin said.

"Because only Thrain could verify the truth of it," Thranduil said. "And he has not been seen for a hundred years. By telling you of it, I expose myself to another judgment: being thought a liar spreading tales for my own ends."

"And are you?" Thorin said, his face grim. "A liar."

"I am a king," Thranduil said quietly.

His words silenced Thorin, but only temporarily.

" _Why_ would Thror refuse your aid?" Thorin asked.

"Why!" Thranduil said. "You may as well ask why he returned my gift to you! Why did he flaunt the Nauglamir before me, while you looked on, in the hope I would lose my temper and lower myself in your eyes?" He did not need to tell Thorin what happened when he lost his temper; Thorin had seen it.

Thorin held out his arms in an abrupt, angry motion, as if displaying the vastness of his distrust. "Are you asking me to believe my grandfather let our people suffer merely because he _disliked_ you?"

"Dislike! It was more than that." Thranduil's hold on his temper slid. "But answer me this! Do you believe I would have willingly turned away from you the day Smaug came? You must know I would not!"

Thorin nearly stamped the ground in his anger. "I do not see what I had to do with any of it! Do you seek to blame me?"

"Of course not!" Thranduil said, frustrated beyond all caution. "Thror acted as he did because he judged me his enemy. I was not then. But I would have become one, even if Smaug had not come, if Thror had continued to prize wealth above all else. But you had _something_ to do with it! When your grandfather returned my gift to you, he included a note. Do you wish to know what it said?"

"Certainly," Thorin said, suddenly icy. "Why not."

"' _My grandson Thorin is neither your kin nor your pupil_ ,'" Thranduil quoted. "' _So do not attempt, with your cheap gifts, to supplant me in his affections_.'"

"Can you produce this note?" Thorin said. "Or must I take your _word_ for it?" 

"Yes, you must," Thranduil said. "I burned it."

Thranduil had never meant to tell Thorin about Thror's lowliest act: turning away his aid – lower than keeping the Nauglamir by far. Thorin's likely disbelief was why he had not spoken. He had hoped Thorin would one day learn of it from someone else. But that had not happened.

" _Why_ did you give me the harp?" Thorin asked.

"To encourage you in your music," Thranduil said. "And as a pledge to the future. I looked forward to a time when there might be friendship again between dwarves and elves. Between the Mountain and the Wood."

Thorin's anger turned even colder. "You mean you looked forward to a time when my grandfather and father were _dead_."

"No!" Thranduil said.

"And I was king!" Thorin paced up and down before Thranduil. "After you had molded me into what you wished, and could count on getting all the gems you desired! My grandfather must have perceived your ghoulish thoughts!"

"No," Thranduil said, but there was some truth to what Thorin said. He had looked forward to Thorin on the throne, which could not happen without the deaths of Thror and Thrain.

"You should not have told me about my grandfather," Thorin said, pacing faster. "Not unless your wish is for me to hate him!"

"That is not what I wish!" Thranduil said.

"Then what is it that you want?" Thorin roared.

"For you not to hate _me_!" Thranduil said at equal volume.

"You!" Thorin thumped his chest. "It must always be about _you_. If there is one thing I can count on, it is your vanity!"

Thorin stepped forward, stood between Thranduil's knees, and took Thranduil's face in his hands, forcing Thranduil to look at him, as Thranduil had done to Thorin. His mouth was an inch from Thranduil's. His breath puffed against Thranduil's face.

"If you do not wish for me to hate you," Thorin said, "then _let me go_."

Thorin released Thranduil's face with a shove, as if pushing away something foul, and stalked to his gaol. He opened the door, turned, pointed at Thranduil, and shouted, "The only one rotting here is you!" He slammed the door shut behind him.

There was a time when Thranduil would have found humor in the sight of a dwarf storming into a wardrobe, but at that moment he was heartsick. He stayed in his chair for a time, perhaps half an hour, then rose and ascended the stairs until he reached the forest.

He walked to the site of the fire, and looked long upon it. Then he walked for many hours, deep into the woods, where trees had endured since the coming of the sun. There he stood, unmoving, among the ancient trees, and wished he were one of them.

He had once walked in the woods of Beleriand with the Ents. It was then he had begun to love beeches best. His memory had not failed him, and as one of the Eldar it never would; he would always be able to recall those times unfaded. Yet they grew more and more remote, for such times would never be again.

A hawk perched on his shoulder. With an effort, Thranduil said, "I do not hunt today," and the hawk flew off.

Leaves drifted down and settled on his hair. Rain fell. The sun rose and set thrice. All about him, the world changed.

He was built to last, but not to change. In a world that was ever-changing, remaining the same was no different from rot.

* * *

When Thranduil returned to his chambers at nightfall, nearly four full days since his departure, he found Thorin striding around the pool. 

"You!" Thorin said angrily, as if no time had passed at all. Then Thorin started at Thranduil's disheveled appearance.

Thorin went to the doors; Thranduil heard him speak to a guard. A short while later, two servants arrived and undressed Thranduil, bathed him, helped him into dry garments, and combed his hair.

Thorin took Thranduil by the arm, his grip hard, and led Thranduil to the table. Food and drink were brought, then the servants withdrew. Thranduil ate the food without tasting it. When he finished, he lay on a couch. Thorin sat on the couch beside him, and still looked angry.

"No one would tell me where you were," Thorin said. "For all I knew, you had cast yourself in the river again. From the state of you, it seems I was not far off!"

"My subjects do not interfere," Thranduil said. He was now extremely weary, but he owed Thorin answers. 

"You have done this before, then," Thorin said. "What is it that you do?"

"Many times. I spend time in the forest. Among the trees. There are some as old as I am."

Thorin said in a softer voice, "What is it that ails you?"

Ghoulishness. Immortality. They were perhaps one and the same to a mortal.

"The life of the Eldar," Thranduil said. "We are bound to Arda until it is unmade. That is what ails me, if it can be called an ailment."

"You are not the only elf from the Eldar days that still rules in Middle-earth," Thorin said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "There is Lord Elrond in Rivendell, and the Lady of the Golden Wood. I have not heard of them suffering from this… ailment."

At that, Thranduil briefly smiled. He could not speak of the rings of power, so he could not explain why Galadriel and Elrond endured with grace, while he decayed year by year. He had one comfort: if the One Ring was unmade, or found by Sauron, the Greenwood would endure; Rivendell and Lorien would likely fade.

"If you sailed west to the Undying Lands, you would find healing," Thorin said. "Or so I've heard."

"You know my answer to that," Thranduil said. "I cannot leave the Greenwood. If I abandon it, it will perish." 

Thorin held his gaze for a long moment, until Thorin read something in Thranduil's eyes, and looked astonished. 

" _That_ is why you want the Nauglamir," Thorin said, his voice hushed. "You believe it will help you endure."

_Well done, Thorin Oakenshield._ Thranduil was too tired to speak.

"Will you sleep now?" Thorin said.

Thranduil nodded.

"I do not hate you, Thranduil," Thorin said.

Thorin began to extinguish the candles.

"I have never hated you," Thorin said.

Before all the candles were out, Thranduil slept.


	5. Chapter Five

The following day, Thorin spoke rarely, saying only the minimum required of people living in the same space.

Their conversation the night before had changed little between them. Thorin remained Thranduil's prisoner; Thorin's spirits remained cast down. There was only one cure. _Let me go._ Thranduil had to risk making Thorin another offer.

When the autumn festival began in three days, Thranduil was expected to preside over the merry-making. If he made an offer to Thorin, he would have to do so before another day passed.

After dinner – at which musicians had entertained them with a flute, a fiddle, and a harp – Thranduil suggested they go to the King's Beech. Thorin put on his cloak without saying a word. Thranduil brought along a flask of wine and two cups.

Up in the tree, Thranduil sat on a branch and poured them wine. Thorin sat next to him, but, after only a few minutes, Thorin walked to the east side of the platform, and watched the moon, waxing bright, rise over the Lonely Mountain.

"Thorin, I wish to negotiate with you again," Thranduil said.

Thorin turned toward Thranduil, but remained where he stood.

"If you reveal how you plan to enter the mountain," Thranduil said, "so I may judge your chance of success, I will let you and your company go, and equip you for your journey." 

"And if you do not approve of my plan to enter Erebor?" Thorin said.

"Then we will be no worse off than we are now," Thranduil said. 

Thorin looked east again.

"I will also not claim the Nauglamir until you know whether your father lives," Thranduil said.

He immediately had Thorin's full attention. Now that Thorin knew what the Nauglamir was to Thranduil – more than finery, more than a great heirloom – Thorin knew Thranduil releasing his claim on the Nauglamir was the greatest concession Thranduil could make.

"I may never discover if Thrain still lives," Thorin said.

"I understand that," Thranduil said.

Thorin looked down, his expression grave. "May I think on it?" Thorin said.

Thranduil bowed his head in assent, and wondered why Thorin was so reluctant to reveal how he would enter Erebor. The plan must rely on something tenuous, something Thranduil or others could prevent, or withhold.

Thorin sat on the branch and picked up his wine cup. When Thorin looked again at Thranduil, Thorin's melancholy seemed to have increased, not lessened. Thranduil could not think why.

"How would we formalize an agreement between us?" Thorin said.

"I will not ask for an oath," Thranduil said quickly; oaths repulsed him.

"Then I shall give you a pledge," Thorin said.

"What would you pledge?" Thranduil asked, surprised. Thorin was his prisoner; he already possessed everything Thorin had.

"Orcrist," Thorin said.

Thranduil almost exclaimed aloud in disappointment. Thorin pledging Orcrist was a mockery of their negotiations. Or…

Or Thorin had a claim on the sword he had not disclosed.

"How did Orcrist come to you?" Thranduil asked.

"I found Orcrist in a troll hoard in Eriador," Thorin said. "I took it to Rivendell, where Lord Elrond gave it to me."

Thranduil did not doubt the truth of Thorin's explanation. No one would dare to falsely attribute words or deeds to Elrond.

Elrond's right to the sword could not be disputed, for it had been made by his close kin; Elrond was descended directly from King Turgon of Gondolin. If Elrond had given Orcrist to Thorin, then Thorin's claim was equally iron clad. Why had Thorin not said so, when Legolas had taken the sword from him? 

The answer must be that Thorin had needed something from Elrond, critical to Thorin's plan to enter Erebor, and had wished to conceal that fact – something other than Orcrist, or Thorin would have fought to keep the sword.

"How did you find the Hidden Valley?" Thranduil asked.

"Our guide was Gandalf the Grey," Thorin said.

So Gandalf _was_ involved. Thranduil nearly shook Thorin in frustration. If he had known Elrond and Gandalf were aiding Thorin's quest, he would not have sought to hinder it. Thorin's distrust had brought needless strife to them all. Thror and Thrain were to blame; they had taught Thorin to keep secrets not worth keeping.

"Where is Gandalf now?" Thranduil said.

"I do not know," Thorin said. "He accompanied us to the eaves of the forest, then left in a great hurry on some secret errand. I believe he received a summons, though I do not know how."

If Gandalf had been summoned in a manner Thorin had not perceived, then the summons had come from Galadriel. If not her, then Saruman, Elrond, or Cirdan; there were few in Middle-earth who could call on Gandalf. 

Thranduil would have to send messengers to Lorien and Rivendell; there were important events unfolding, and he had not been informed. It seemed Gandalf had meant to accompany Thorin, and explain matters to Thranduil, but had been called away.

* * *

When they were back in Thranduil's chambers an hour later, Thorin shored up the fires for the night, and took a seat at the table. Thranduil joined him.

"I will accept your offer, Thranduil," Thorin said. "But my heart tells me to throw the Nauglamir back into the sea. It has been a curse to both our kindreds."

Thranduil bowed his head. He wanted Thorin to accept his offer, and yet he did not, for it would mean Thorin's eventual departure. But Thorin would undoubtedly stay for a good while yet. It would soon be winter; the dwarves would surely wait for spring to set out. It would be an immense pleasure to have Thorin's company when Thorin was his honored guest, not a prisoner.

"I accept Orcrist as your pledge," Thranduil said. "But we cannot complete your pledge until the sword is back in your possession. Legolas has Orcrist. He is due to return from a patrol within two days. Until then, keep your plans concerning Erebor to yourself."

Like Thorin, Thranduil spoke with scrupulous politeness. They both knew how easily their negotiations could collapse again.

"I appreciate your concessions," Thorin said. "I will make one as well: I will not insist on an apology from your son."

"What do you mean?" Thranduil said, alarmed.

"For calling me a thief and a liar," Thorin said. "And holding Orcrist to my throat."

Thranduil bit back an exclamation of dismay. If Legolas had not taken Orcrist, and had not said harsh words to Thorin, perhaps Thranduil's first meeting with Thorin would have gone another way. Thorin's outburst before Thranduil's throne was explained, at least to some degree.

"You may not insist on an apology," Thranduil said. "But you shall have it."

Thorin rose from his chair, stood before Thranduil, and bowed low.

"It means much to me," Thorin said, "for I know how dear your son is to you."

Thorin appeared grateful, and it gave Thranduil an urge to give Thorin more, just to see Thorin's gratitude. For the first time since their argument five days earlier, Thorin looked at him with an unreserved smile.

"He is dear to me, yes," Thranduil said. "It was because of Legolas…"

Thranduil paused. He had not meant to discuss a family matter, but Thorin looked interested. Fascinated. Again.

"I did not seek help for my wounds until my son was born," Thranduil said. "I went to Lord Elrond for aid."

"When did you suffer your wounds?" Thorin asked. "You have not said."

"At the Fifth Battle of the Siege of Angband," Thranduil said. "We were close to victory, but Morgoth unleashed his balrogs, and his dragons, the chief of them Glaurung."

Thranduil had marched on Morgoth's stronghold, Angband, with Fingon's host. King Thingol had sent no forces to the battle; he would not fight alongside the sons of Feanor because of the Kin-slaying. But Thingol had given leave to Thranduil, and other Sindarin elves, to go to war.

"You must know of the battle," Thranduil said. "The dwarves of Belegost fought with us."

"I know it well," Thorin said. "If not as well as you. Was it Glaurung who wounded you?"

"No." Remembering his youthful inexperience, Thranduil smiled. "I was no match for Glaurung. I took on one of Glaurung's brood – the smallest – and slew him with my sword. I knew little of dragons, so I rejoiced in my victory, even as I drew my sword from his belly. A great gout of his blood struck me. A dragon's fire is not only in his breath. It is also in his blood, which is pure venom, and burns flesh. I was sightless and senseless."

"How then did you survive?" Thorin asked, looking distressed. He had remained standing before Thranduil's chair.

"The dwarf lord Azaghal carried me from the Field of Ard-galen," Thranduil said. "Before Glaurung could trample me into the mire."

Thorin's eyes widened.

"I did not know about Azaghal at the time." Thranduil remembered a deep voice, nearly drowned out by the battlefield din, saying _Beautiful fool_ , and that was all. "I learned of it afterward from Maedhros. Azaghal was his beloved friend. I never had a chance to thank Azaghal. He was dead within the hour. Before Azaghal lost his life, he wounded Glaurung, and the worm and its spawn left the battle."

There was a new light in Thorin's face, one of pride. "You said you sought healing once your son was born," Thorin said. "Why?"

"My wife wished it," Thranduil said.

"But such wounds are honorable," Thorin said, sounding angry on Thranduil's behalf.

"Do you believe my wife left because of my wounds?" Thranduil said. "I was wounded before we married; she knew full well their extent. I was not the reason for her departure."

Thorin looked skeptical.

Thranduil continued. "She was traveling from Imladris to Lorien with our kin when she and the rest of the party were attacked by orcs. She received a poisoned wound. Not even Lord Elrond could heal her. Of that I am sure, for Elrond's wife Celebrian was wounded in the same attack."

Thranduil had never talked about it before; all elves knew of it, so there had been no reason to.

"A year later, Celebrian and my wife left for Valinor together," Thranduil said. "If they had not, they would have died, or worse. So do not judge my wife harshly. She believed I did not seek healing for my wounds out of vanity, and she was right. For our son's sake, she asked me to seek Elrond's help."

Thorin still looked angry on Thranduil's behalf.

"How could it be vanity…" Thorin began, then his voice trailed off, and he looked at Thranduil with wonder.

"You are beginning to understand, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil said.

"But I saw–"

"If I have the power to conceal such horrible wounds," Thranduil said, "could I not also make others see wounds no longer there?"

Thorin's mouth opened.

"The world was young," Thranduil said. "So was I. After the battle, my flesh knitted quickly, but all who looked upon me still saw a warrior who had slain a dragon. And had paid the price."

The light of pride was gone from Thorin's face; he looked sorrowful.

"When I sought Elrond's help, he could do nothing at first, because my wounds were no longer of the body," Thranduil said. "My wife had perceived this. With Elrond's aid, I dispelled the illusion I had cursed myself with."

Thorin was silent for a long moment. 

"You let me believe you still suffered," Thorin said. He did not sound angry, only sad.

"I did not intend for you to think so," Thranduil said. "I merely wished you to know I had been wounded in the past – but when I understood you believed I still lived with the wounds…"

He had not corrected Thorin's mistake, because he had dreaded losing the respect he had briefly seen in Thorin's eyes.

Thranduil turned inward, to the day of the battle, and willed the wounds to appear again. It would be the last time, he vowed. He could smell the stench of his dead flesh, and of the dragon's caustic blood. He saw from Thorin's grimace that he was again wearing the terrifying mask of a dragon slayer, and he exaggerated it further, so the flesh fell from his bones.

Thorin stepped forward and laid a hand directly on Thranduil's face, over Thranduil's illusion of ruin, as Thorin had done years before, without knowing what he touched. Thorin's hand on his face was solid, hot. Thranduil sighed, let go of every illusion, and existed as he was.

"Why did you mutilate yourself?" Thorin asked, his voice soft. "It could not be vanity only."

Thranduil pushed Thorin's hand away from his face. He did not desire Thorin's pity.

"I made others see wounds which no longer existed," Thranduil said. "You cut off a beard that was never singed. We are not so different."

"No." Thorin smiled gently. "We are not."

They had survived when their people had perished. That was their shame. What they must atone for. They showed their ruin to the world so it would see how dearly they had paid, and not begrudge them their lives. Thranduil did not have to explain it to Thorin; Thorin knew.

Thorin went to place his hand on Thranduil's face again, but Thranduil stopped him. He regretted revealing so much. He had gained Thorin's pity at the cost of Thorin's respect.

"Let us return to the matter of your pledge," Thranduil said, to change the subject. "There must be no misunderstanding between us."

"By all means," Thorin said.

"I accept your pledge of Orcrist," Thranduil said. "In return, I will let you and your company go, and you will reveal to me how you intend to enter Erebor, to be final once you have Orcrist again." 

Thorin nodded, a gentle half-smile on his face.

Thranduil abruptly held out his hand, palm down. It was time for Thorin to kneel, and to kiss his hand in token of the pledge.

Thorin stopped smiling.

"I accept your pledge," Thranduil said. He was repeating himself, but it seemed Thorin required prompting.

Thorin looked at Thranduil's hand, then at Thranduil's face, back and forth between the two.

Thranduil had lost Thorin's respect after his revelation about his wounds, but in this at least Thorin would acknowledge Thranduil's power. If Thranduil had to hold his arm outstretched all night, until the dwarf understood, he would – but Thranduil's patience failed him almost immediately.

"Are you going to accept my offer?" Thranduil said angrily.

"Oh yes," Thorin said. "We are agreed, King Thranduil."

Thorin knelt, and took Thranduil's hand.

Thorin on his knees, in a posture of respect, was a sight Thranduil had longed to see – but instead of the sight giving him satisfaction, Thranduil's heart beat rapidly, almost as if he were afraid, and his breath came fast, as if he had run a great distance.

Thorin lifted Thranduil's hand to his mouth, then paused when confronted by the many rings Thranduil wore, as if unsure where to plant his kiss. His hesitation came to an end and he pressed his mouth to Thranduil's fingers.

Thranduil attempted to withdraw his hand, but Thorin held it fast. The pressure of Thorin's lips on Thranduil's hand increased, and, at the last, just before Thorin's kiss ended, there came a hot lick of tongue between Thranduil's fingers.

Thranduil was too surprised to speak. The standard protest _How dare you_ came into his mind, but he uttered not a word.

Thorin stood up, still holding Thranduil's hand. 

"I trust you are satisfied?" Thorin said.

Thorin was smiling again, and it was no longer a gentle smile. It was much like Thorin's smile before Thranduil's throne, where Thorin had unaccountably been master of the situation, even though Thorin had been at the mercy of Thranduil's guards.

"Satisfied!" Thranduil pulled his hand away. "I would not keep you captive for forty days for the sake of a kiss!"

_Kiss_ was an inadequate term for Thorin's bold caress, but Thranduil could think of no other.

"Wouldn't you?" Thorin said.

Thorin took hold of Thranduil's hand again, and turned it over. Thorin kissed Thranduil's palm, his gaze remaining on Thranduil's face.

"Perhaps, after forty days, you expect a better return," Thorin said, with the same knowing smile.

Thorin planted kisses on the inside of Thranduil's wrist, heedless, or uncaring, of a sudden tremor in Thranduil's limbs.

There was nothing of pity in Thorin's kisses, and no one had dared to touch Thranduil thus, not for long centuries. Other than the occasional formal embrace from Legolas, and the light, respectful touches from his servants as they dressed him, no one had dared be so familiar. The last person who had touched him with tenderness had been Thorin, one hundred and fifty years earlier.

Thranduil knew Thorin admired him, but had not known until this moment if Thorin did so the way one might admire a tree, or a gem – or a lover. Thranduil had desired Thorin almost from the moment of their first meeting, and had, he believed, kept it well hidden. But his desires had been hazy, because desire had been long absent from his life. He had imagined kissing Thorin; he had imagined Thorin's naked chest against his own; he had imagined little else. The sensuality of Thorin's tongue between his fingers was boldly real compared to Thranduil's vague imaginings of fond embraces.

Thorin slid Thranduil's sleeve up to the elbow, exposing Thranduil's unflawed skin. When Thorin's kisses reached Thranduil's elbow, Thranduil was certain Thorin would stop, because Thranduil's sleeve was too thick and heavy to be pushed any further.

Thorin stopped. When Thorin let go of his hand, Thranduil betrayed himself with a sigh. The sound left him like a groan following a battle-blow.

Thorin heard him.

Thorin stood beside Thranduil's chair. He placed one hand on Thranduil's chest. With his other hand, he lifted Thranduil's hair, and let it fall, slowly, strand by strand.

Thranduil's eyes closed, his head fell forward, and then both of Thorin's hands were in his hair. The sensation was so pleasurable Thranduil wanted to lie down and relish it. Receiving the respect and attention he deserved from Thorin was as soothing as the fingers in his hair. Thranduil had thought himself well pleased with Thorin's admiring glances, but Thorin's admiring hands were far better.

Thorin pushed himself between Thranduil's legs, bunching Thranduil's robe, and leaned over Thranduil, who had slumped in his chair. Thranduil slid down further, until Thorin nearly lay on top of him.

_No one would dare._ And Thorin knew it. Thorin understood no one had dared touch Thranduil, but Thorin could dare, and would. 

Thranduil wanted to kiss Thorin desperately, but Thorin could not quite reach him. He gripped Thorin's shoulders, and pulled. Thorin climbed onto Thranduil's chair, kneeling over Thranduil's lap, nearly sitting on it. Thorin's knees were on the chair seat, on either side of Thranduil's hips. Since Thranduil's greater height was mainly in his legs, it put their faces nearly level. 

The first touch of Thorin's lips was gentle. Thorin brushed their lips together, their mouths slightly open, until Thranduil's vague desires sharpened, and the kiss was not enough. Thorin's weight on his lap was not enough. Thranduil squeezed Thorin's shoulders, which were nearly as broad as his own, and a demanding sound escaped his mouth.

Thorin slid off Thranduil's lap and seized Thranduil by the wrist, leading him to the bed.

When Thranduil was on his back, Thorin knelt next to him on the bed and returned to stroking his hair, fanning the strands out around Thranduil's face. Formerly, Thranduil would have been content with it, but now he wanted more. He slid his hand beneath the neck of Thorin's shirt, combing his fingers through the thick hair on Thorin's chest, and the demanding sound came out of his mouth again, with even greater urgency.

Thorin left off stroking Thranduil's hair instantly. His clever hands quickly discovered how to remove Thranduil's elaborate garments, baring Thranduil down to the waist. Thorin's hair and beard caressed his arms and legs as Thorin stripped him naked, leaving only the rings on Thranduil's fingers. Thorin's hands were greedy, but also slow with gloating, smoothing and molding Thranduil like a long-coveted treasure.

Thorin shed his own clothing, and Thranduil looked at the contrast between their bodies, his fascination and curiosity twin facets reflecting the other. Thorin did not take offense.

"Look your fill," Thorin said, and paid homage to Thranduil with his mouth and hands.

Under Thorin's caresses, Thranduil could not remain still. His body twisted like a wave, and he did not cease to look upon them. Thorin was as strong and broad as hewn stone; Thranduil was as tall and slender as a beech. Side by side, they were axe and flame, the mountain and the wood.

Thorin lay next to him, and gripped Thranduil's hair. With a quick motion of his arm, Thorin wrapped Thranduil's hair around his wrist. His other hand went to Thranduil's throat. Then he pulled Thranduil's face to his, so they were mouth to mouth again. No one had ever handled Thranduil so roughly, or so passionately. If Thranduil wished, he could push Thorin away with a single hand. He was the stronger. Instead, Thranduil moaned again, into Thorin's mouth.

When Thorin turned Thranduil over, spread Thranduil's legs, and repeatedly spat on him, the extent of Thorin's passionate urgency was at last made starkly clear to Thranduil. With his limbs trembling, Thranduil got on his hands and knees, but it put him out of Thorin's reach. He lay flat, face down. Thorin quickly arranged him with the help of cushions.

Thorin stroked and pulled Thranduil's hair, distracting Thranduil with pleasure and pain. At the last moment, Thorin relented and drenched them with oil, then Thranduil was pinned, made fast, by Thorin's desire. Thranduil groaned with the rightness of it. It was right for Thorin to take him. It was right for Thorin to scorch him with passion. No one else would dare. Thorin's hair swung and struck Thranduil's back over and over, in a soft flagellation, like an ordeal of love, until Thranduil was wrecked by Thorin's tenderness, and collapsed in shuddering, blissful ruin.

When their need for each other was temporarily slaked, Thorin returned to stroking Thranduil's hair. 

"I could drown in you," Thorin said, desire in his voice and in his eyes, but sadness was there also.

Thranduil bowed his head. Whether his gesture was permission, or a warning, would be for Thorin to decide.


	6. Chapter Six

Legolas and Tauriel returned from their southern patrol on the eve of the autumn festival, only a few scant hours before it commenced, so Thranduil debriefed them at his throne, from which he had been overseeing preparations. He and Legolas would preside over the festival's first ceremony at midnight.

When Thranduil described the fire during their absence, Tauriel was enraged, and wanted to go immediately to the site to track the arsonists back to their haunts. Thranduil told her she would have to wait until the festival concluded. Since they had destroyed the orcs at the blaze, there were no tracks leading away; Tauriel would have a greater challenge than she anticipated.

While Tauriel reported on the patrol, Thranduil was distracted by thoughts of Thorin.

The day following his agreement with Thorin, they had climbed the King's Beech at noon, Thorin's first visit in sunlight. There Thorin – making ingenious use of the tree's branches to reduce the discrepancy in their heights – had instructed Thranduil on how to service him with his mouth. At night, Thorin had spread oil on Thranduil's limbs and taken him as deliberately as the first time had been rushed. Thranduil's desire had been slow to wake, but once wakened it had matched Thorin's, until Thorin's had blazed all the hotter. 

"My lord?" Tauriel said.

"Yes?" Thranduil said.

"I said we saw lights at Dol Guldur, as of a battle, but when we arrived all was quiet," Tauriel said. "I think it bears further investigation. Do you not agree?"

Thranduil sighed. His captain had ignored his order to stay within the realm.

"After you investigate the fire, we will discuss it," Thranduil said. 

Tauriel's report finished, Thranduil told Legolas to come to his chambers that evening. Tauriel gave Thranduil a worried look, so Thranduil smiled blandly to indicate it had nothing to do with her.

* * *

When Legolas arrived at Thranduil's chambers an hour later, Thorin and Thranduil rose from the table, and Thorin bowed to Legolas. It was the first time Thorin had done so; Legolas was unable to hide his surprise.

For the festival, Legolas had changed out of his patrol uniform and into a silver robe. He wore a circlet upon his head, and, as Thranduil had expected, carried only one weapon, Orcrist.

Thranduil also had on a silver robe, but had not yet arranged his hair or put on his crown.

"Legolas," Thranduil said. "I have learned Orcrist was a gift to Thorin from Lord Elrond. You must return Orcrist to Thorin."

Thranduil spoke gently; his son was not at fault. Legolas had acted as best he could with the information he had possessed.

A bereft look appeared on Legolas's face, a look Thranduil had not seen for years. An unexpected pang lodged in Thranduil's chest.

"Give Thorin his sword," Thranduil said. "And apologize to him for calling him a liar and a thief."

Legolas's forlorn look intensified, sharpening the pain in Thranduil's chest. He was asking his son to part with perhaps the finest blade in Middle-earth. But Legolas had to learn what it meant to be a king; sometimes it meant giving up what one desired most.

Legolas unbuckled Orcrist's sheath from his belt. 

"Please accept my apology, Thorin Oakenshield." Legolas went down on one knee and held out the sword to Thorin. "And take back what is yours."

In an instant, Thranduil went from feeling terrible to feeling terribly proud. 

Thorin took the sword, and bowed again to Legolas. "I accept your apology, Legolas."

Legolas got to his feet, bowed to Thorin, and looked at Thranduil. Thranduil smiled and bowed his head; Legolas managed a brief smile in return.

Thranduil opened his weapons chest. Thorin placed Orcrist within. Thranduil locked the chest with a key, and they were done: Thorin's pledge was nearly final. Legolas looked on curiously, but Thorin's eyes were shining, and Thranduil thought it best if Thorin did not face questions then.

"I shall see you at midnight, my son," Thranduil said, warmth in his voice. 

After Legolas left, Thorin looked gravely at Thranduil.

"I suppose I must tell you of my plan to enter Erebor," Thorin said.

"Not until morning," Thranduil said. "I must be at the Lighting of the Lamps in an hour, and I am not yet ready." He rang a bell to summon a servant.

While the servant arranged Thranduil's hair, Thorin stretched out on a couch and read a book, _Common Herbal Remedies_.

Recalling Thorin's arrival six weeks earlier, Thranduil smiled while his hair was dressed. 

Thranduil had been at lunch that day when a runner sent by Tauriel informed him thirteen dwarves had been captured in the forest, and one of the dwarves appeared to be Thorin Oakenshield. Thranduil had dropped his knife and fork, hurried into a fine robe, put on his crown, and rushed to his throne, where he had tried to look as if he were not impatiently awaiting Thorin's arrival.

The servant finished arranging Thranduil's hair, and placed his crown – bare of all decoration for the winter season – on his head. After checking the result in a mirror, Thranduil gave the servant leave to depart.

When Thranduil and Thorin were alone once more, Thorin left the couch for the bed. Along the way, Thorin shed his clothing, until he wore only a long linen shirt that reached to his knees. He lay on the bed, drew the blankets up to his chest, propped pillows under his head, and began to read again.

"I am ready," Thranduil said, to draw Thorin's attention.

Thorin lowered the book, looked at Thranduil over the top of it, and said, "Have a lovely time." Then he raised the book.

Thranduil crossed the room in two long strides and snatched the book away. He discovered Thorin smiling, as if in anticipation. Thranduil did not appreciate being teased – not unless something came of it. He sat on the bed beside Thorin and placed a hand on Thorin's chest.

"Be careful," Thorin said. "You might miss a feast."

"I think not." Thranduil ran his hand down Thorin's body.

Thorin laughed. "Thranduil, you must go." Thorin's expression turned serious. "Or your son will wonder if he is the reason you stay away."

Thorin was right, alas. Thranduil stood up, smoothed his robe, and returned the book to Thorin.

"Do not worry," Thorin said, smiling again. "I'm not going anywhere."

Guards were still at every door; until Thorin divulged his plans, Thorin remained Thranduil's prisoner.

* * *

Hundreds of Greenwood elves were seated at tables in the dining hall. They rose to their feet when Thranduil and Legolas entered.

Thranduil and Legolas stepped onto the dais at the head of the hall. Thranduil waited for the crowd to quiet. At the stroke of midnight, he lit two large lamps, one of gold, one of silver, in memory of the Trees, and gave thanks to Yavanna for the harvest.

He had spoken the words thousands of times, but it had been many years since he had felt gratitude to match them, as he did now.

When he finished speaking, his folk lit lamps on their own tables. Once all the lamps were alight, and winked like stars in a dark winter sky, Thranduil held up a hand, signaling to Legolas. Smiling, Legolas led a toast to begin the festival. Musicians struck up a joyous tune.

After the toast, however, Legolas was subdued. Thranduil decided he would ask Thorin to make a fine sword for Legolas, cost no object, and was about to say something reassuring on the subject, when Legolas spoke.

"Father, I have been ill at ease since we captured the dwarves."

Thranduil's spirits sank a little. Was Legolas still fretting about the attention Tauriel had paid to Thorin's nephew, Kili?

"Tauriel has been worried about Dol Guldur," Legolas said. "But to me it has seemed there is a danger closer to home. I am not sure how to describe it. It is like… an eye watching from the shadows."

Pleased by Legolas's perception, Thranduil smiled. "I am aware of it, my son."

"You have also felt it?" Legolas looked relieved.

"Do not be troubled," Thranduil said. "Enjoy yourself tonight. The threat you have sensed shall soon be gone. I will tell you all tomorrow."

The main feast would be at noon the next day; it would be time enough to tell Legolas of his agreement with Thorin. Thorin and his companions – even Thorin's always-hungry spy, perhaps! – would attend the feast as guests of honor.

The dancing began. Thranduil could at last leave without drawing notice. He departed for his chambers, and Thorin.

* * *

The doors closed behind him. Thranduil removed his crown and his boots, and walked silently toward his bed chamber.

He found Thorin still in bed, and still reading. The only change was that Thorin appeared to be wearing nothing at all under the blankets.

As before, Thranduil snatched Thorin's book away. Lifting his robes, he sat on Thorin, straddling Thorin's hips. When he leaned forward and placed his hands over Thorin's, his hair fell around them like a curtain.

"Is there something you want?" Thorin said, smiling.

Thranduil was annoyed – he was _sitting_ on what he wanted; why was Thorin being obtuse? – then understood he was being teased again.

He would make Thorin regret it.

He dragged himself slowly over Thorin. After he pushed the blankets and his robe out of the way, there was nothing between them but his thin leggings. It was shockingly pleasurable to rub against Thorin this way.

Thorin's face turned red, and his expression heated. Thranduil was well content. He outweighed Thorin, if not by much, and had – he was sure – the greater strength. With his hands on Thorin's, their fingers interlaced, Thranduil was certain Thorin could not move, and would have to accept such pleasure as Thranduil dealt out.

But Thorin's hands suddenly tightened, his grip increasing in power, until, with surprise, Thranduil knew he would have to release Thorin's hands, or suffer pain.

His surprise must have been obvious, for Thorin smiled.

"Get undressed," Thorin said.

Thranduil hurried to get his clothing off, Thorin lending the occasional hand. When Thranduil was bare, he made to lie down next to Thorin, but Thorin said, "Oh, no. You're committed," so Thranduil straddled Thorin again.

Thorin gripped Thranduil's hips. "Carry on," Thorin said, his eyes hot.

Thranduil had control again. He could moderate the speed of their movements, and watch the changes on Thorin's face. Their hair tangled together, and Thranduil's chest shone with Thorin's sweat; they were in every way intermingled. But Thorin's hands remained on Thranduil's hips, and increasingly – and finally solely – Thorin, not Thranduil, governed the pace at which they were undone.

Afterward, Thranduil remained on top of Thorin. 

"What I want," Thranduil said, "is for you to stay with me. Snow already falls on Erebor. Stay until spring."

He slowly caressed Thorin's hair. It was reminiscent of the time he had searched Thorin's hair for clasps, but this time Thranduil's hands were gentle, and Thorin stared up at him with an expression of passionate reverence until Thranduil could bear it no longer, and tried to lie down beside Thorin so he could draw Thorin into his arms. But Thorin still gripped his waist. 

"Stay where you are," Thorin said. "So I may look at you."

* * *

A sound in the darkness woke Thranduil. Someone knocking on the doors?

Thorin was still in Thranduil's bed, and would have to return to a couch before Thranduil admitted anyone, but there was no hurry. No one would dare intrude without Thranduil's permission.

The sound came again, this time unmistakably loud pounding on the doors.

"My lord! Father!" It was Legolas at the doors, and his voice was unusually anxious.

Thranduil sat up and pulled on a robe. Thorin was not in the bed with him. Thranduil lit a candle. Thorin's clothing was gone. Thranduil rose and went to Thorin's gaol. The door was open. Thorin was not inside.

Had Thorin gone above, to their beech? Would the guards have permitted it? Ever since the fire, Thranduil's guards had snapped to respectful attention in Thorin's presence.

"Enter!" Thranduil said.

"I cannot," Legolas called from the passageway. "The doors are locked, and the keys are missing!"

Thranduil searched the cavern wall near his bed, found a set of keys he had hidden years earlier, and opened the doors.

Legolas was accompanied by a dozen guards. Had orcs dared to attack the fortress?

"My lord, the dwarves have escaped," Legolas said. "They are not in their cells. I was afraid–"

"None came to me with murder in mind," Thranduil said, immediately understanding the reason for the additional guards.

"Where is Thorin?" Legolas asked, his eyebrows drawn together in worry.

Thranduil had convinced himself Thorin was nearby, perhaps waiting in their beech. But if the dwarves were gone, then Thorin had left with them. When Thorin had said his companions would not leave without him, Thorin had spoken the truth.

Thranduil's voice sank to a whisper. "He is gone."

"The key warden was found in the cellars, drunk," Legolas said. "At least a dozen barrels are missing. We believe the dwarves went through a cellar trapdoor to the water-gate."

"They will have gone east to Lake-town," Thranduil said. His voice rose from a whisper to a shout. "Pursue them! Bring them back to me!"

"Tauriel is already on their trail, Father," Legolas said. "I will follow her."

As Legolas went through the doors, he called out, "No one is to enter the King's chambers!" then Legolas ran, his light, fast footfalls echoing in the corridor.

Thranduil quickly searched his chambers, but he knew Thorin was not there.

He dressed, his thoughts turning increasingly disjointed. Every look, word, and deed that had passed between him and Thorin in the last forty-two days pressed into his mind.

When he had promised Thorin freedom, he had been sure Thorin would not be in any hurry to leave. Thranduil had even begun to consider going with Thorin, with a host of elves, to deal with Smaug. Tauriel would have been overjoyed, which was no small part of Thranduil's pleasure when thinking of it.

But now Thranduil could see he had been deceived.

Everything Thorin had said and done had been a lie intended to lull Thranduil, until Thorin's spy could aid Thorin's escape.

The dwarves could not have escaped without the aid of magic – a magic more powerful than Thranduil's, which, while not as great as that of Lorien or Rivendell, was nevertheless far greater than that of any dwarf. It must have been borrowed. A dark magic?

Thranduil felt wrenched in half. He wanted to pursue Thorin himself, but he also craved seclusion, to be away from all eyes. The latter impulse won out.

He walked swiftly to his beech. From the treetop, Thranduil could look east, toward the great lake and Erebor. The sight would not be soothing, but he had a faint notion the view would somehow offer counsel.

When Thranduil reached the platform at the beech's crown, he saw on a branch two wine cups, and his heart was glad – Thorin was there after all – then he saw the cups were empty, and had been forgotten there some days before. At that, darkness overtook him – the old darkness, which had fallen when his father had died at the Battle of Dagorlad, and when his wife had left him for eternity. 

An evil fate lay ahead for the dwarves. Thorin was leading his company to their deaths. The dwarves would try to slay Smaug, and they would all perish in fire. Thranduil would never see Thorin again. The darkness filled him until he felt as one with the evil in the forest around him. Every decaying tree, every foul creeping beast, every plant dripping poison, was no darker or bleaker than his heart.

 _Stay here, if you will, and rot_ , he had said to Thorin. And as if Thorin was there, shouting at him in anger, Thranduil heard the response. _The only one rotting here is you._

* * *

An hour later, Thranduil's grim thoughts were interrupted by a guard who ascended the ladder into the beech.

"Legolas and Tauriel have returned, my lord," the guard said. "They have taken a prisoner to your throne, and await you there."

The darkness vanished. Thranduil went down the ladder on the heels of the guard, and hurried toward his great hall. He did not understand why Legolas and Tauriel had taken Thorin to his throne, instead of to his chambers. As angry as he was with Thorin, Thranduil did not wish to see Thorin further humiliated by being paraded in public.

When he reached his throne and saw the prisoner was an orc, he froze.

"The dwarves?" Thranduil asked.

"Escaped, my lord," Tauriel said. "We had to choose between pursuing them, and pursuing the orcs."

The darkness returned.

"I spoke to the guards on your doors last night," Tauriel said. "I learned how Thorin got past them."

The guards had heard a strange noise. When they went down the hall to investigate, they found a trail of broken crockery and spilled food. They followed the trail to a dead end, then hurried back to their post, where nothing seemed amiss. 

"They were gone for only a few minutes, my lord," Tauriel said. "But it was long enough. They will be punished."

Thranduil barely listened to her explanation. The orc's unclean feet on his cavern floor filled him with fury. The sooner the orc was interrogated, the sooner its foulness would be gone.

"Such is the nature of evil," Thranduil said, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Out there in the vast ignorance of the world it festers and spreads. A shadow that grows in the dark. A sleepless malice as black as the oncoming wall of night. So it ever was. So it will always be. In time, all foul things come forth."

Going in pursuit of evil: that was the fatal error. It had been the ruin of the Noldor in the Siege of Angband. It had been the ruin of his father and the Wood-elves in the Battle of Dagorlad. Thranduil would not make the same mistake. He would stay in his woods, and wait for evil to come to him.

* * *

Thranduil stood on the orc's twitching, headless body until it stilled.

"Why did you do that?" Legolas said. "You promised to set him free."

"And I did," Thranduil said. "I freed his wretched head from his miserable shoulders."

"There was more the orc could tell us," Legolas said.

"There was nothing more he could tell _me_ ," Thranduil said, and sheathed his sword.

"What did the orc mean by the _flames of war_?" Legolas asked.

"He meant they intend to unleash a weapon so great it will destroy all before it," Thranduil said. "I want the watch doubled at our borders, all roads or rivers. Nothing moves but I hear of it. No one enters this kingdom. And no one leaves it."

Thranduil departed for his chambers.

He knew at last why the orcs had pursued the dwarves so tenaciously. The Enemy wanted Thorin dead because Thorin could injure or kill Smaug, and the Enemy planned to use Smaug as a weapon of war. The Enemy would not be turning his sights on the closest targets, such as Lake-town, but on the Greenwood, Lorien, and Rivendell – Rivendell, the most vulnerable, might be first.

Thranduil had already sent messages to Lorien and Rivendell asking for news of Gandalf's whereabouts. He would have to send a new message. He stopped on a terrace and gave a loud call.

A great grey owl swiftly appeared, and perched on his outstretched arm.

"Tell the Lady the skies are no longer ours," Thranduil said. He dared not send a clearer message. Galadriel could communicate more swiftly, and with greater secrecy, with the others: Elrond, Cirdan, Saruman, and Gandalf – if Gandalf had been found.

The owl flew off, heading south.

Back in his chambers, Thranduil paced around the pool. With orcs in deadly pursuit, it was doubtful Thorin would reach Erebor alive; Thorin might not even reach Lake-town.

 _I do not care_ , Thranduil was reminding himself when guards admitted Legolas, just moments after Thranduil's arrival.

"Father, I forgot to give these to you." Legolas held up a ring of keys. "The keys to your chambers were found on a peg in the cellar."

Thranduil held out his hand.

Legolas suddenly snatched the keys back, went to Thranduil's weapons chest, and opened it. He cried out in gladness, and lifted up Orcrist. A fine chain had entangled the sword's hilt; Legolas pulled the sword free.

"At least Thorin had no time to take this," Legolas said. He smiled as he buckled the sword to his belt.

Thranduil was too surprised to see Orcrist to comment; he had assumed Thorin had taken it. He accepted the keys from Legolas without saying a word.

"I will go now to shut the gates, Father." Legolas bowed, and departed. Guards closed the doors behind him with a heavy clang.

Thranduil sat down at his table. Why had Thorin not taken Orcrist?

Thorin had failed to keep his end of the bargain – disclosing how he would enter Erebor and retrieve the Arkenstone, and perhaps the Nauglamir – but had not taken his pledge with him. It did not make sense.

Thorin _could_ have taken Orcrist; he or his spy had taken the keys to Thranduil's chambers, which also included a key to Thranduil's weapons chest. Had Thorin simply not had time, as Legolas thought? But if Thorin had been in a hurry, why had Thorin carefully left the keys on a cellar peg?

A few minutes later, there was another knock on the doors. 

"Enter," Thranduil called, his voice subdued.

When he saw his visitor was a captain of the palace guard, Thranduil stood up, expecting yet more evil news.

"My lord, the gates are closed, as you ordered," the captain said. "But Tauriel left before we closed them. Your son has gone after her. We believe they are following the dwarves down the Forest River."

Thranduil was so angered by this new development he did not speak for close to a minute.

"Send scouts after Legolas and Tauriel," Thranduil said at last. "Do not interfere with them. Merely bring me reports."

The captain left hurriedly.

The darkness gripping Thranduil intensified. With Legolas and Tauriel following them, the dwarves were more likely to reach Erebor safely, instead of being killed by orcs on the way. But what did Tauriel intend? What aid did she wish to give, other than to warn the dwarves Thorin's nephew had been shot by a poisoned arrow? Could that be all? Or would Tauriel – and therefore Legolas – follow the dwarves to Erebor, try to enter the mountain with them, and share in the dwarves' fate?

Because of Legolas's order that no one could enter Thranduil's chambers, no servants had come to clear away the remains of last night's meal; the dinner dishes were still upon the table. Thranduil picked up Thorin's cup and dashed it to the floor, shattering it. He had been a fool to have anything to do with dwarves. He had been twice a fool to accept Thorin's pledge.

Which Thorin had left.

Thranduil's gaze fell on his weapons chest. When Legolas had lifted Orcrist free, a chain had been wrapped around its hilt.

There were no chains in the chest.

His heart pounding, Thranduil opened the chest. He quickly found the chain.

It was finely made of mithril. Each link was marked with a crown surmounted by seven stars, or by the outlines of a hammer and anvil – the emblems of Durin, which Thranduil had seen for the first time ages past, on the Elven-gate into Moria, and, more recently, on Thorin's hair clasps.

 _I do not doubt you could fashion a key or weapon from these_ , Thranduil had said.

Instead of taking Orcrist, Thorin had placed a chain around its hilt. A chain Thorin had made from his hair clasps.

The chain had a catch. Thranduil undid it, slid the chain over his hand, and fastened the catch. The chain was a bracelet. It fit perfectly around his arm between wrist and elbow, where it would be concealed by the sleeves of his robes.

Another image came into Thranduil's mind: of Thorin giving up braids, his hair streaming free.

Thorin must have begun making the bracelet then, with the intention of leaving it behind. The change in Thorin's hair had coincided with Thorin's increased melancholy – a melancholy Thranduil had assumed was due to Thorin's loss of freedom. But that had not been its sole cause.

Once again, every word and deed of Thorin's in the last forty-two days entered Thranduil's mind, but instead of anger and betrayal, Thranduil was flooded with pure elation, driving out all other emotions, with the certain knowledge everything he felt for Thorin was returned in equal measure. At this moment, Thorin was experiencing the bitterness of their parting, just as Thranduil was. Their shared misery gave Thranduil a hot, fierce joy. Thorin had deceived him, but not about everything.

But Thranduil's elation quickly faded; with his anger gone, the pain of Thorin's absence rushed in – a pain Thranduil had buried in anger. Anger had kept the pain at bay for a while, but joy could not.

Realizing the gift of the bracelet was not one Thorin would give an enemy – not even a former enemy – Thranduil's pain over Thorin's absence increased yet again.

Thorin had said he had never hated Thranduil, and at last Thranduil understood it to be true. The day Smaug had come, Thorin had reacted to what he had perceived as Thranduil's abandonment as a friend would. As a lover would. Thranduil had misjudged Thorin as terribly as he had believed Thorin had misjudged him. For a moment, Thranduil wanted his anger and darkness back – anything to relieve the ache of desperate hope growing in his heart – but the darkness was gone beyond recall. 

Legolas and Tauriel could be in danger. The orc had said war was coming. Smaug might be wakened. The Enemy had returned. So how could it be that Thorin's absence was the keenest hurt, when there was so much else to wound him?

Thranduil pulled his sleeve down, concealing the bracelet. He was not given to foresight, but he knew he would see Thorin again, even if the flames of war lay between them. His fate was now bound with that of Thorin's.

Come what may, Thranduil would leave his realm, for the first time in one hundred and fifty years, and follow the three he loved – his son, his captain, and his dwarf. The bracelet around Thranduil's arm meant Thorin would receive Orcrist from Thranduil's hands, and no others.

It meant there was still a pledge between the Mountain and the Wood.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in translating this, making fan art, writing fanfic based on it, or recording podfic? Yay! Please let me know so I can add a link.
> 
> Goal was to write a Thorin/Thranduil romance taking place over the forty-two days Thranduil holds Thorin prisoner in _The Hobbit_ book, while keeping the story/characters as true to movie and book canon as I could in the circumstances. I was helped by [Thorin and Thranduil's scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jW7mHWbbiIU), for which Peter Jackson gave these stage directions to Lee Pace (Thranduil): "You've got all the power, he (Richard Armitage, Thorin) has no power, yet he's still standing up to you." [Megatruh's spectacular Thorin/Thranduil art](http://megatruh.tumblr.com/tagged/thorinduil) was also inspirational (NSFW).
> 
> In 2011, when we were discussing the upcoming Hobbit movies, eyebrowofdoom said, "We'll all be writing dwarf porn," and I thought NOT ME, so this is for her. In addition, her story [The Apprentice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1169655), about Thorin's life as a traveling smith, is now my head canon for "what Thorin was doing" between [History Lesson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1133613) and _Axe And Flame_.
> 
>  _The Mountain And The Wood._ The phrase is said by Gimli to Galadriel in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ (book).
> 
> Will I write more in the _The Mountain And The Wood_ 'verse? Yes, if the extended version of _The Desolation Of Smaug_ and _There And Back Again_ provide useful material.
> 
>  **Sources:**
> 
> Web sites: [The Hobbit calendar](https://ece.uwaterloo.ca/~dwharder/Personal/Hobbit/#calendar). Books: _The Silmarillion_ , _Unfinished Tales_ , _The Book of Lost Tales_ One and Two, _The Children Of Hurin_ , _The Lord Of The Rings_ and its appendices, and _The Hobbit_. Films: _The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey_ (extended edition), _The Hobbit: The Desolation Of Smaug_ (theatrical), and Hobbit cast interviews.
> 
>   **Additional story notes:**
> 
>  _The Desolation Of Smaug_ theatrical release implies the dwarves spend only a day or two in Thranduil's dungeons. Whether that will be true of the extended edition is unknown as of now.
> 
> Had to reconcile the puzzling (and geographically impossible) scene in the first Hobbit film, in which Thranduil marches to Erebor during Smaug's attack, but does not offer aid. I came up with head canon to address it.
> 
> Thranduil perceiving Bilbo happens in the movie. Since in book canon Thranduil was at the Battle of Dagorlad, my head canon is that Thranduil perceives the One Ring along with Bilbo's physical presence.
> 
> In book canon, Thranduil keeps Thorin in his dungeon because Thorin won't say what he's doing in Mirkwood. In the movies, that reason is dumped because it's obvious what Thorin is doing (going to Erebor), so my assumption is Thranduil imprisons Thorin because they are in love.
> 
> Thranduil's wounds in the films: whether the wounds are real, a memory, or a physical manifestation of spiritual distress, was unknown when I wrote this. My version is mine only, and is not movie canon as far as I know.
> 
> The gems/necklace Thranduil wants: judging from Thranduil's reaction in the first Hobbit movie, the gems are as important as the Nauglamir. According to some, Jackson couldn't explicitly make the necklace the Nauglamir because he doesn't own the rights to _The Silmarillion_. If you are familiar with _The Silmarillion_ , you'll know the Nauglamir could under no circumstances still contain a Silmaril, so my story version does not.
> 
> Thranduil using spies is book canon. Being burned by a fire dragon's blood is book canon (Turin and Glaurung, _The Silmarillion_ ).
> 
> Tolkien doesn't explain why the elves do not find the Lonely Mountain map and key on Thorin. Neither do the films. I assume the map and key are concealed by a spell, and cannot be seen or discovered except by "friendly" eyes.
> 
> Formatting: Tolkien capitalizes elves and dwarves in most usages. I did not, because it makes text difficult to read. I used American spelling throughout, but may at a later date change that. Did not use special characters because they are not rendered properly in the .mobi download format.
> 
> Timeline: I sometimes subtracted twenty years, because two events in the books, which happen twenty years apart (Thror getting killed at Moria, and the huge battle with the orcs), were compressed into one event in the film. 
> 
> Singed beards: I used Richard Armitage's head canon about why Thorin's beard is short.


End file.
